#don's quill pen

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-One

“I have to go. It is the Kings command.”

After a day and night filled with arguing regarding not only Aegon’s disrespect, but of what he had asked Aemond to do, Maera’s awoke the following day opting for silence, the flames of her anger burning brighter than ever before. Her husband was returning to his whore. And despite his reassurances that he would not lie with her, nor even be in the same room with her unless absolutely necessary, Maera found little comfort in his words.

War finally felt as though it was at her doorstep. News had reached them that the Lord Commander continued to make his way across the Crownlands, experiencing a few delays on the way to Duskendale due to rebels in the villages of Rosby and Stokeworth, led by wayward knights and angered common folk. These traitors were quickly put to the sword and the Green forces had remained a few days in each location to ensure stability, before moving onto present terms to House Darklyn.

“Are you just going to keep ignoring me?”

The quill scratched furiously across the parchment as Maera penned urgent letters to her siblings, Luthor and Sabine. She implored them to provide sanctuary for her niece and nephew, no, her husband’s niece and nephew, detailing the escalating dangers in King's Landing and the need to keep the children safe.

Meanwhile, a few servants bustled about the room, packing Aemond's belongings into sturdy chests. Each item carefully folded and arranged, ready to be transported to Harrenhal. Aemond's presence loomed in the chamber as he prepared to depart, donning a long leather overcoat suited for dragon flight. Despite his outward appearance of composure, an undercurrent of agitation simmered beneath the surface, fueled by Maera's persistent silence towards him.

She signed her name on the letters to her siblings with a firm hand, the ink drying quickly on the parchment. With practiced precision, she folded each letter closed and sealed them shut with crimson wax, pressing the royal seal of House Targaryen onto the surface.

Despite the urgency of her task, Maera couldn’t shake the feeling of Aemond’s presence lingering in the room. She could sense his eye on her, but she refused to meet his gaze, her focus solely on completing the task of securing the safety of Jaehaera and Maelor.

As she stood from the desk, her movements deliberate yet tinged with apprehension, Maera found herself face to face with Aemond, who had cornered her. His imposing figure seemed to fill the space between them, his eye searching hers for some sign of reconciliation. But Maera remained steadfast, her resolve unyielding despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. Aemond’s gaze bore down on Maera with an intensity that seemed to penetrate her very soul, his single violet eye flickering with emotion. Initially, Maera averted her gaze, her green eyes skirting away from the raw intensity of his stare.

“I do not know when I will return,” he murmured with a furrowed brow. A sense of defiance ignited within Maera, and she raised her chin, meeting his gaze head-on, her jaw set in determination as the Prince continued to speak. “But I do not wish to part ways like this.”

When Aemond reached for her hand, Maera’s heart fluttered with a mixture of apprehension and longing. She hesitated for a moment, her hand trembling slightly before she tentatively allowed him to intertwine their fingers. Their hands formed a silent connection, a fragile bridge between the chasm that had grown between them. Aemond knew her better than most, and no amount of kind words of thoughtful gestures in this moment would change the way she felt.

With his other hand, Aemond gently lifted Maera’s chin, tilting her head upward until their eyes locked once more. “Do not cause trouble whilst I am gone,” he ordered with a slight smile. Maera’s breath caught in her throat as she felt the weight of his parting words, the warmth of his hand against her skin burning like fire.

He lowered his head down slightly, capturing her attention. “Remain here and focus on the safety of our child. Do not over exert yourself,” Aemond commanded, his tone firmer and face serious, leaving no room for disobedience.

Aemond released her hand, allowing it to rest gently on her growing stomach, a silent acknowledgment of the life burgeoning within her. Maera felt a surge of tenderness wash over her at the touch, the weight of their unborn child pressing against her palm. Their child would be born in five, maybe four, moons, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Aemond would return in time for the birth, if fate would allow him to return at all. Blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, she forced herself to push aside the anxious thoughts that crowded her mind, focusing instead on the present moment.

His other hand, which had been cradling her chin, now moved to the back of her head, drawing her close. Maera leaned into his touch, her heart skipping a beat as his lips brushed against her forehead, his sharp nose buried in her hair. In that fleeting moment, she breathed him in, the scent of dragon smoke and leather imprinting itself upon her senses forevermore.

“Avy jorrāelan,” I love you, he whispered against her skin, his words uttered like a prayer. Maera felt the tug of desire warring against the walls of her resolve. She longed to surrender to him, to relinquish herself to the undeniable pull of their connection. Yet beneath the surface, a stubborn determination held her back, a fear of vulnerability that she couldn't quite shake.

As Aemond pulled away, his gaze lingering on her form, Maera watched him leave silently, her heart heavy with unspoken words as he departed through their chamber doors. She listened to the echo of his footsteps fade into the distance, leaving her alone with her thoughts as she made her way to the nearby window, sitting and gazing out at the world. After a while, Maera saw the unmistakable silhouette of Vhagar soaring through the sky and disappearing into the clouds, leaving her feeling utterly powerless.

Anger simmered beneath the surface, fueled by the frustration of the ongoing war and the relentless chaos it brought. She clenched her fists, a silent protest against the forces that tore them apart. The pang of his departure cut deep, leaving her feeling abandoned and alone in the midst of the tumultuous political landscape. The thought of Aemond's possible interactions with Alys gnawed at her, igniting a bitterness that she struggled to suppress. The war had already taken so much from them, and the fear of losing him to another woman added another layer of anguish to her already burdened heart.

Staring at horizon, her hand instinctively going to her growing belly, Maera couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability that enveloped her. The weight of her impending motherhood added to her sense of isolation, leaving her feeling exposed and defenseless in a world fraught with danger. Maera’s keen ears could detect the low rumbles of Ēbrion’s calls on the beach, the noise filled with longing and pain. With a heavy sigh, she allowed her tears to flow freely, a silent testament to the weight of their parting and the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Maera made a conscious decision to shift her focus away from her turbulent emotions and instead spent time with Jaehaera and Maelor in the serene surroundings of the Red Keep gardens. As they strolled amidst the vibrant foliage, escorted by Ser Arryk, the laughter of the children and the gentle breeze from the nearby sea served as a welcome distraction, momentarily drowning out the storm of frustration that brewed inside her.

The trees, adorned with leaves of crimson, gold, and amber, rustled softly in the breeze, releasing a symphony of whispers that echoed through the air. A carpet of fallen leaves decorated the ground, crunching softly underfoot as they walked along the winding pathways. The fragrance of earth and decaying foliage mingled with the sweet scent of late-blooming flowers, creating an intoxicating aroma that hung in the air.

Being surrounded by the beauty of nature provided Maera with a temporary reprieve from the harsh realities of her situation. As she watched Jaehaera and Maelor play amidst the splendor of the gardens alongside her protector and a nursery maid, she found solace in the simple joys of the moment, allowing herself to momentarily forget the pain of Aemond's absence and the sense of powerlessness that weighed heavily upon her. In this tranquility, she could lock away her feelings and find comfort in the comforting embrace of denial, if only for a fleeting moment.

“It is hard to believe you were once that small.”

Maera turned to unexpectedly see her father, Lord Jasper, approaching on the stone path. No doubt he had heard of her and her husband’s disagreements before his departure, and was checking to see if all was well. The Master of Laws cut a distinguished figure in his classic attire of turquoise and gold, his chest adorned with a chain that gleamed in the sunlight. Lord Jasper carried a stack of books and scrolls, a testament to his scholarly pursuits.

Despite the presence of her father, Maera maintained her silence, offering him only a brief nod of acknowledgment before returning her gaze to her wards. Lord Jasper joined her side, his gaze also fixed on Jaehaera and Maelor as they played together in the garden. Lord Jasper breathed a laugh as he watched the nursery maid scolding Maelor for tugging his sister’s hair, a scene that brought a fond smile to his lips.

“Laethan and Vaeron always pulled on your braids,” the Master of Laws chuckled at the memory of his late sons, but was met with silence from his daughter. In truth, she could not remember those moments with her brothers, or even what they truly looked like. She knew one had silver hair like their mother, the other dark brown like Maera, but that was all. Another torn page in her book of family history.

Sensing he was getting nowhere, Lord Jasper opted for a different approach. “Your stepmother writes that she is with child again.” This earned more of a reaction, a mere scoff from Maera. This would bring the total of trueborn children up to thirty. More pieces on her father’s political chessboard. A Wylde on the seat of every great House, if he so wished. The news of another sibling brought no comfort. Maera wondered if she would actually even get to meet them now she was a Princess and lived in Kings Landing. Probably not, as her place was in the Keep, with her husband. Her husband who was now gone.

The Master of Laws sighed deeply, turning to his daughter as she met his gaze with a furrowed brow, her eyes the same shade of green as his. “I know this is difficult Maera, but such is the ways of war,” he began. “Your husband will serve the Realm justly at the warfront, and you will serve the Realm here, by providing the Prince with an heir.” Her father’s gaze wandered down to her growing stomach, protruding out of her black and gold skirts.

“An heir that could perhaps also inherit the throne. Stranger things have happened,” Lord Jasper grinned. Maera tore his gaze away from him, instead refocusing on Jaehaera and Maelor playing. Would it be so difficult just to love the child in her belly as it was? And not have it be a contender for the throne? Why was the child viewed as its station rather than the person they actually were? Was a parent’s love truly so conditional?

A hand on her shoulder brought Maera back to reality, causing her to look again at the Master of Laws. He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, almost hesitant for the words to leave his mouth.

“You are his wife. Nothing, and no one can take that away from us,” Lord Jasper stated. Maera shook her head subtly to herself. Of course. ‘Us.’ Naturally, her father cared for little else except their statuses as nobles. Now Aemond and Maera were bound in marriage, nothing a bastard whore presented to her husband could tear him away from Maera by law. But she did not care about law.

“I understand what he has done may have upset you. But it is the way things are, and you need to accept that.”

As her father continued to speak, Maera’s frustration and anger threatened to boil over, evident in the tensing of her muscles and the tightness of her jaw. Despite Lord Jasper’s advice conforming to societal expectations, Maera’s body grew increasingly rigid and defiant, her shoulders squared and her gaze steely.

“It is your duty to stand by his side and endure, no matter what happens,” the Master of Laws concluded in a firm tone, ordering his daughter to simply accept the current reality and be a good obedient little wife, like so many noblewomen before her. Unable to contain her emotions any longer, Maera’s anger erupted like a raging inferno.

“Fuck that.”

With a sharp turn, she stormed away from her father, her steps purposeful and determined. Approaching Jaehaera and Maelor, she enveloped them in firm kisses on the crowns of their heads, the scent of soap mingling with the silver locks of their hair, a brief moment of solace amidst the turmoil. Leaving the children in the care of the nursery maid, Maera began to stride back towards the castle, her jaw clenched with resolve. Despite Lord Jasper’s attempts to call her back, she ignored him, her mind consumed by the task at hand.

As she made her way, Ser Arryk, ever loyal, jogged to catch up with her. The clink of his armor grew louder until he reached her side, his mousey brown hair tied back and his neatly trimmed beard framing concern in his hazel eyes. With a steady gaze, he wordlessly offered his support, ready to stand by her side through whatever challenges lay ahead.

The servants bustled in and out of Maera's room for the second time that day, their hurried movements filling the space as they packed her belongings into chests. Black and gold dresses of various styles and fabrics were carefully folded and placed alongside her leathers and weapons, ensuring everything was packed securely for the journey ahead. A smaller chest was prepared, containing essentials that would tide Maera over until the rest of her belongings could be delivered on horseback in a weeks' time.

Meanwhile, Maera sat at her dresser, clad in her black and gold riding leathers, as her loyal maid Thena worked on braiding her hair. With expert fingers, Thena expertly wove Maera's dark locks into neat plaits, the silver streak standing out prominently against the darker strands. As the first braid was completed, Thena moved on to the second, her brow furrowed with concern as she worked.

"I know you don't approve, Thena" Maera stated matter-of-factly, her voice tinged with defiance.

Thena continued her task, her hands weaving through Maera's hair, her expression softening with worry. "I'm just worried for you, Princess, and for the babe," she replied gently, her voice laden with concern. "War is dangerous, and it spares no one."

Once the braiding was finished, Maera rose from her seat and turned to face Thena, taking the maid's hands in her own. Gratitude shone in her eyes as she gazed at the older woman, her ginger hair framing kind brown eyes that reflected genuine care and concern.

"You have been loyal to me since the day I returned to King's Landing," she acknowledged, gratitude evident in her tone. “And I will never be able to repay all the kindness you have shown me. But I hope this helps a little bit.”

Reaching into the drawer of her dresser, Maera procured a black silk purse, containing enough silver stags to start a new life, and pressed it into Thena's hands. "I know not when or if I will see you again," Maera admitted, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But I need one more favor from you."

Thena's eyes were filled with tears, and her smile was warm and reassuring as she listened attentively. "Anything," she promised.

Maera's gaze held steady as she spoke her next words with conviction. "Prepare the children to leave the capital when the time is right," she instructed, her tone firm yet earnest. "And if possible, against the King's wishes, try to get Helaena out of King's Landing too."

Thena nodded solemnly, her agreement a silent vow to carry out Maera's wishes, no matter the obstacles that lay ahead. As Maera bid farewell to her loyal maid, the air in the room seemed heavy with the weight of their parting. Their embrace was not a formality, but a genuine display of affection and gratitude, their intertwined arms speaking volumes about the bond they shared. Tears welled in Maera’s eyes as she held onto Thena, the maid’s comforting presence offering a moment of respite.

When the chamber doors creaked open, Maera reluctantly pulled away from Thena, her gaze shifting to Ser Arryk as he entered. He stood there, a stalwart figure, his presence a source of reassurance amidst the uncertainty of their circumstances. Clad in a cloak and without his usual armor, his sword still hung at his hip as a silent reminder of his duty.

Maera wiped her eye before addressing her protector. “Oh Arryk, I have not forgotten about you either.” With a soft sniffle, Maera opened the dresser again and retrieved another purse of silver, intending to offer it to Ser Arryk as a token of gratitude for his steadfast service. However, to her surprise, he shook his head, declining the gesture with a solemn expression. “I made a vow, Princess, and I shan’t abandon it now. You will not journey into the vipers nest alone.”

As Maera processed the news that Ser Arryk would be accompanying her to her destination, a wave of relief washed over her. The prospect of facing the unknown ahead seemed less daunting now, knowing that she would have his steadfast presence by her side. In that moment, she felt a profound sense of gratitude for the unwavering support of both Thena and Ser Arryk, their loyalty serving as a beacon of strength amidst the turmoil of their circumstances.

Maera walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, her steps echoed with a newfound determination. Ser Arryk's presence at her side offered a sense of reassurance, a reminder that she was not embarking on this journey alone. Though he had declined to accompany her on dragonback, knowing that he would meet her at her destination in a week's time provided a comforting anchor amidst the uncertainty that lay ahead.

As she traversed the familiar halls, Maera's mind buzzed with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, reflecting on the tumultuous events that had led her to this pivotal moment. Less than a year had passed since she had returned to the capital, yet the landscape of her life had been irrevocably altered.

Married to Aemond, the man she had once despised, their relationship evolved from a childhood friendship to a love that defied expectations. The loss of Jaehaerys, the innocent boy she had watched come into the world, weighed heavily on her heart, a stark reminder of the fragility of life in a world plagued by violence and betrayal.

And then there was Helaena, the fragile thread that had initially drawn Maera back to the capital. Seeing her friend suffer through unimaginable grief and loss had been a horrendous experience, one that had left Maera grappling with her own sense of helplessness in the face of such profound suffering.

But amidst the darkness and despair, there was also hope. With the weight of her husband's child nestled within her, Maera embarked on a journey to mount her dragon, Ēbrion, a creature with whom she had formed an improbable bond against all odds. With Ser Arryk opening the doors to the courtyard, Maera found herself drawing strength from the resilience that had carried her through the trials of the past year, determined to seize control and forge a path forward, no matter the obstacles that stood in her way.

“Maera!”

Turning, she saw the Queen Mother rushing down the stairs, green skirts flapping as she ran, her face flushed with exertion. This was no doubt one last act of the Master of Laws, using Alicent, who had greater authority, to get Maera to fall in line.

“Maera, please,” Alicent implored, reaching out and clasping onto Maera’s arms with desperation. Maera’s expression softened as she regarded her mother-in-law, noting the anguish etched on her face. “You cannot leave. Think of the child within you,” Alicent pleaded.

Maera gently took Alicent’s hand in hers, meeting her gaze with resolve. “It is because of my child that I must leave,” she replied, her voice steady. “Kings Landing is vulnerable. We cannot receive trade via the Gullet. The Realm is divided, and now the Riverlands are lost. My dragon can be better utilized for the war effort.”

As Maera attempted to withdraw, Alicent’s grip tightened, her tone growing more desperate. “Have you even considered your wards, or Helaena?” she demanded.

Maera’s eyes flashed with irritation. “I have ensured the children’s safety,” she retorted. “And as for Helaena, I’ve requested her relocation, but the King refused. If you’re unhappy, take it up with your son.”

With a frustrated sigh, Maera pulled her arm away, her frustration palpable. “I never asked to be thrust into the forefront of a war,” she stated firmly. “But now that I am, I will not stand by idly and watch it unfold before me.” With that, Maera turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Alicent to ponder her words in the echoing halls of the Red Keep.

Mounting her dragon on the beach, Maera prayed to the Seven that what she had learned the past month from the dragon keepers was enough to prepare her for what lay ahead. With a commanding voice, she issued the order for Ēbrion to fly. The magnificent beast responded with a powerful flap of his wings, propelling them into the air with a deafening roar. As they soared higher and higher, Maera took a moment to familiarize herself with the intricacies of the saddle, adjusting the reins to steer the dragon north west, in the direction of her destination.

Though the sensation of flying was exhilarating, she remained focused, her mind sharp as she navigated the skies. With each adjustment, she could feel the dragon responding beneath her, his movements synchronized with her commands and pulling of the reins, ascending into the gray clouds that hung ominously overhead.

After a while of soaring through the calm skies, a sudden shift in the atmosphere signaled the onset of a fierce storm. Dark clouds rolled in with alarming speed, obscuring the once clear horizon with a blanket of ominous gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance, reverberating through the air like the roar of an angry beast. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the clouds with jagged bolts of electric energy. The wind howled with relentless fury, buffeting Ēbrion's massive wings as he struggled to maintain his course amidst the tempest.

Rain began to fall in torrents, pelting down upon Maera with merciless force. Each droplet felt like a sharp needle against her skin, stinging her face and obscuring her vision. She gasped for breath amidst the deluge, the relentless onslaught of water making it difficult to draw in air. Struggling to maintain her grip on the reins, Maera clung desperately to the saddle, her fingers white-knuckled with exertion. With Ēbrion's movements growing increasingly erratic in the storm, she knew she needed to find shelter from the raging elements.

“Dokimarvose, Ēbrion. Pālēs,” Focus, Ēbrion. Evasive Manoeuvres, Maera commanded through the storm, her mount obeying with a mighty roar.

Pushing herself forward into a lying position against the saddle, Maera sought to shield herself from the brunt of the rain. Despite her efforts, the rain continued to assault her with unyielding ferocity, soaking her to the bone and chilling her to the core. As the storm raged on around her, Maera's thoughts turned to the haunting memory of her recent nightmare, the sensation of drowning in the darkness of the water echoing in her mind.

As the storm finally began to relent, Ēbrion soared into a clearer patch of sky, his powerful wings beating against the remnants of the tempest. Maera, her body drenched and shivering from the ordeal, felt a surge of relief flood through her as she finally managed to catch her breath. Laughing incredulously, she marveled at the sheer resilience of both herself and the magnificent dragon beneath her.

With a shaky hand, Maera reached down to place a gentle palm against her growing stomach, feeling the reassuring presence of her unborn child. “Īlon vēttan ziry,” We made it, she grinned.

Turning her gaze past Ēbrion's head, Maera's eyes widened in awe as she beheld the majestic sight of a distant mountain range rising up on the horizon. The rugged peaks stretched out in a breathtaking panorama, their silhouettes etched against the canvas of the sky. Beneath the dragon's left wing, Maera's gaze fell upon an expansive lake, its dark waters shimmering in the sunlight. Nestled within the embrace of the tranquil waters, an island adorned with lush foliage beckoned invitingly, a verdant oasis amidst the vast expanse of the lake.

Yet it was the sight below his right wing that truly captured Maera's attention. As she peered down, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of ruins, sprawled out like the skeletal remains of a once-grand structure. The massive castle, with its towering walls and imposing towers, stood as a testament to ancient power and ambition. The blackened stone, scorched by dragonfire centuries ago, bore witness to the castle's tragic history. Harrenhall.

“Ninkiot.” Land.

With a resounding thud, Ēbrion descended gracefully onto the ground beside the crumbling ruins of Harrenhal, his massive form causing the earth to tremble beneath his weight. The impact sent a cascade of stones tumbling from the dilapidated walls of the once-mighty fortress. Maera wasted no time in unlacing the intricate bindings that tethered her to the saddle, her nimble fingers deftly working to loosen the restraints. She also unfastened the chest secured behind her, which contained her items of clothing and weapons, heaving it onto the ground with a determined grunt.

Descending from her lofty perch, Maera began to make her way down the makeshift ladder fashioned from sturdy ropes, her movements deliberate and sure. However, before she could reach the ground, Ēbrion extended his massive wing towards her, a silent offer of assistance. Grateful for her dragon companion's aid, Maera accepted the gesture, using the sturdy appendage as a makeshift slide to descend the remaining distance to the ground. As her feet touched the earth below, she cast a fond glance up at Ēbrion, silently thanking him for his steadfast companionship throughout their journey.

“Halt!”

Maera’s gaze snapped towards the fortress gates, where two guards dressed in helmets and chainmail stood, swords raised as they approached her. Although the swords were aimed in her direction, their eyes were instead fixed on the gigantic dragon behind Maera. At the sight of the guards’ aggressive stance, Ēbrion reacted instinctively, his massive form tensing as he assumed a defensive posture. With a deep rumble emanating from his throat, the dragon growled menacingly, his blue and black scales glinting in the sunlight as he bared his formidable teeth.

“Lower your weapons, for Gods’ sake,” Maera sneered at the men, hoping to avert a potentially disastrous clash between man and dragon.

“Then state your business,” one of the guards replied, a quiver in his voice as he looked down the dragon’s throat. As Ēbrion prepared to unleash his fiery breath, Maera sprang into action, standing sideways with one arm raised in an attempt to calm the enraged beast. With her other hand held up in a placating gesture towards the guards, she hoped to diffuse the escalating tension and avoid a confrontation.

“Lay down your arms, you idiots!” A voice boomed from overhead, seemingly coming from one of the turrets above the gate. Maera heard the clink of armour of the approaching source of the voice. A voice she was sure she recognised.

Maera’s eyes narrowed as she focused on the approaching man, squinting to discern his features amidst the sunlight. He stood at a similar height to her, with short strawberry blonde hair, a sprinkling of freckles adorning his cheeks, and a neatly trimmed beard framing his jawline. His armour bore the sigil of a blue and silver seven-pointed star on the chest plate, the sword on his hip commanding attention.

Relief flooded through Maera as she recognized the man as Lord Adrian Tarbeck, her sister Sabine’s husband. With a grateful sigh, Maera turned to Ēbrion and gave him a nod of permission to depart. With a powerful beat of his wings, the dragon took flight, disappearing into the distance as Maera and Lord Adrian began to converse.

“You are a long way from home, my Lord,” Maera greeted her brother-in-law with a smile, who returned the grin with a respectful bow.

“Lord Lannister suggested my forces were best utilised here for the meantime,” Lord Adrian replied. He then turned his attention to the guards, barking an order at them to grab Maera’s chest of belongings before inviting her to follow him inside, with the suggestion of settling her into the previous Lord and Lady’s chamber.

Adrian led Maera through the dilapidated courtyards of Harrenhal, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with the whispers of history that haunted the ancient fortress. Crumbling walls loomed overhead, bearing witness to centuries of strife and upheaval. As they entered the castle itself, Maera followed her brother-in-law's steady stride, her mind racing with thoughts of her purpose here. She explained to Adrian that she had recently corresponded with Sabine, seeking permission to take Maelor under her care as a ward.

Before she could delve further into the matter, however, Maera's attention was drawn to a room along their path. Pausing in her tracks, she looked inside, her gaze scanning the sparse furnishings—a small bed, shelves lined with jars and ointments, and a hearth crackling with warmth. In the dim light of the chamber, Maera's eyes fell upon a figure standing at the hearth, their back turned to her as they stirred a pot bubbling above the flames.

“Princess?” Lord Adrian’s voice called her back to reality, his blue eyes filled with confusion as he watched his sister-in-law stood beside the wooden door.

She looked at him for a moment, before turning her gaze back to the person in the room. “Thank you for leading me this far, good brother. I shall find you shortly.” Before Adrian could reply, Maera entered the room and shut the door behind her, turning her attention back to the figure standing before the hearth, a silhouette against the flickering flames.

“I knew you would come, Princess,” the woman’s voice echoed in the room, her attention still focused on the pot bubbling over the fire.

Maera’s brow furrowed in surprise. “You did?” she questioned, taking a few steps closer.

The woman nodded slowly, her movements deliberate. “Yes, I saw you in the storm cloud. And in this fire I lit to cook my supper,” she replied cryptically, her words sending a shiver down Maera’s spine. “I see much and more, you know.”

Maera felt a chill settle over her as she recognized the voice. It was the seer, the witch, the whore—Alys. Despite her apprehension, she squared her shoulders, steeling herself before addressing the woman.

“You see a lot, yet do not know how to appropriately greet a Princess of House Targaryen?” Maera’s tone was laced with thinly veiled disdain, her eyes narrowing as she observed the witch’s form.

Alys breathed a laugh, the sound echoing in the room as she dropped her spoon into the pot with a clatter. “My apologies, Princess,” she replied, turning to face Maera with a smirk playing on her lips.

As the witch turned, Maera’s heart skipped a beat, and a shiver ran down her spine. The woman’s features were eerily familiar—the dimples that creased her cheeks as she smirked, the lines etched around her eyes, and the mesmerizing cat-like green hue of her irises. It was the same face that had haunted Maera’s nightmares, the face of her reflection. Alys then offered a mocking curtsy, her movements fluid yet filled with a subtle mockery.

Maera’s gaze was drawn downward, her blood running cold and a gasp audibly leaving her mouth. The room held a tense silence, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the distant echoes of the storm that had battered them earlier. Maera stood frozen, grappling with the unmistakable large bump of pregnancy protruding beneath the fabric of Alys’ dress.

“Fuck.”

Notes: 🎤 drop. Things are about to get super fucking messy 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @0eessirk8 @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #house wylde #hotd helaena

[ruumirmir]

"Hey, hey- did you hear? Lord Regrator promoted someone as the new branch manager of our bank!"

"Don't tell me... it's him, isn't it?"

"But of course, I heard the harbinger is playing favorites now-"

𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕓𝕠𝕪'𝕤 ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕗𝕚𝕝𝕖

When you feel the caress of a mask; an identity, Who do you become?

Finished cooking Pantalone's Loverboy a little bit more with this character layout. While a good chunk of his aesthetic has been pinned down, I probably won't go further to draw any sort of outfit or character design for him. As of now, I'm keeping his finer details ambiguous enough to classify as a M!reader. @eluxcastar comrade wake up new Loverboy content just dropped.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Under the hierarchy of Regrator's ordinance, Fatuus above a certain level of authority don masks signifying their position. Ordinary agents working with classified business information must never run the risk of disclosing their identities after all. One such mask, dipped in a red of warning and adorned with a platinum wing on it's brow is the telltale identity of the bank's Venator Dux. Whether you stand against him in a negotiations meeting, or battle, he's no less intimidating without the mask.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐇𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

"Hydro represents faith, regardless of how misguided it maybe." "This vision is given to people who either have a strong dedication towards something, or have a desire to help or protect others." From wind to water; That day celestia's eye honed in on the fool falling past a shattered window, dragging down another with him. "How amusing..." they'd think, and brush past the reject to bestow heaven's blessing upon the far more pitiful one.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱

Also called 'wine red' or 'black rose'. Like the lovely wines of plum occasionally imported from Liyue. Like blood to snow in the region colored head to toe in muted greys and blues.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐬

A flower that smells like fresh chocolate. They symbolize peace and tranquility. It is said that Chocolate Cosmos in particular mean “I love you more than anybody can.” Is it more obvious. He offers to pin it on the Harbinger's coat with a knowing grin. A frost-sensitive flower; It requires partial sun or full sun, and flowers from mid to late summer. It cant flourish naturally in a frost-bitten habitat and is artificially kept in greenhouses, only glimpsing the sun every few days through tinted windows. Pantalone barely needs to lift a finger to commission a set of cosmos flowers turned to jewelry for his Loverboy to wear.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐰𝐚𝐧

A Black Swan signifies an insight about yourself that changes your position from one of victim to victor. Black Swan is a graceful reminder to move from any position where you feel powerless and at the mercy of external forces; it is time to reclaim your personal power. A coin always has two sides however; The black swan theory states that, "It is an unpredictable event that is beyond what is normally expected of a situation and has potentially severe consequences."

ੈ♡˳ 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝

Equal parts strategic leader and hands-on agent, the Venator's blade is no less mightier than his pen. Come hell and high water, his feathered quill can enlarge thrice over to chase down it's targets with a mind of it's own, like a missile dart. You wouldn't fare better in close quarters either. The feather reinforced with hydro can sharpen it to the degree of splitting icebergs and necks alike. Why else do you think his ink occasionally flows in hues of red?

ੈ♡˳ 𝐈𝐜𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞

The steely frost seeping into his coat, A heady spice from the smoke warming the air, and the slow bittersweet aroma that doesn't hit you until after he's gone; an aftertaste.

ੈ♡˳ 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings Be your Valentino, just for you" "I'd like for you and I to go romancing Say the word, your wish is my command" "Ooh, love (there he goes again) Ooh, lover boy (he's my good old-fashioned lover boy, ooh) What're you doing tonight?"

ੈ♡˳ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲

"Faithfulness to something to which one is bound by pledge or duty." "In the shimmering expanse of ice and snow, I pledge my unwavering devotion and undying loyalty to the illustrious Tsaritza, sovereign of this frozen realm. As the frost bites deep and the chill of winter grips our souls, I stand firm in my resolve to serve her reign with pride and honor." "With every breath, I swear to defend her name, her realm, and her legacy, even if it means laying down my life upon the icy plains, for in her sovereignty lies the very essence of our existence. Today, I embrace the cold embrace of eternity, knowing that I have lived and died under the banner of our revered Tsaritza, with unwavering loyalty burning bright within my heart..." And he didn't mean a single word of it. He wondered when that would be the death of him.

#➳❥ Ooh Lover Boy #pantalone #genshin #genshin impact #fatui #fatui harbingers #pantalone genshin #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x male reader #genshin impact fatui #➳❥ Rumour writes #genshin imagines #gensin impact headcannons

[monstercampus]

WHAT. 😱 He’s cursed?!? ELLIE PLEASE, I AM BEGGING. 🙏 Lore on Plauge Doctor???? A snippet of his deep dark backstory perhaps? Pretty please? A cherry on top? 🍒?

Oh, it's nothing special! Just the story of an average young man with an insatiable lust for death flying a bit too close to the sun </3

(cws: death, active plague, sickness, mentions of rot, body horror)

In life, "Doctor" Symon Knox was as average as anyone else you might meet in that tiny village on the outskirts of Ordomia--a kingdom-turned-capital city as the world knows it now, far, far away across the seas from the campus he now finds himself employed. Being such a talkative, curious boy in his youth, it was no surprise to his elders that he dreamed of becoming a doctor, and perhaps one with impeccable bedside manner since he found it so easy to make people laugh their pains away.

But this was an era before cellphones and sterilization, and upon reaching his tender adulthood Symon found himself in the throes of an unimaginable plague spreading across the continent, wild and uncontrolled as it killed indiscriminately. Still in the service of his mentor at the time, Symon was given the role of scribe during the last moments of each patient's life. Chivalrous or wicked, senile or sane, he penned each word to save and keep on record for many months, and grew quieter and quieter as the job worked him past his own limits. In time, it felt as though the mask he donned was a feature of his own face, the leather and cloth part of his skin that stuck fast to his bones. Not long after that did his mentor fall from the illness, as did the people he knew and loved from his village as sickness swept over each poor, kindred soul.

Upon returning home to such a sight, Symon began penning his own last words. Page after page of nothingness slung into fire, ink spilled over half-spelled curses, quill-tip pierced through the tough parchment into his father's writing desk. Days passed into weeks and months, the sickly-sweet stench of rot invading the bed of crumbling lavender protecting the beak of his mask. Having adored the man so much in his early years of doctorhood, Symon wouldn't realize that his descent into madness was caused by his mentor's wicked desires--even if he had at the time, there would be no stopping his transformation. The Lich that had masqueraded as a well-to-do doctor, had taken a dirt-poor youth under his wing to teach him the practice of medicine, had crafted that same disease that would kill his corporeal body and take his protégé's life next.

And while Symon Knox unknowingly wrote out his last rites in his own hand, his body was changing to fit the mold he'd been given--the shape that the Lich had deemed worthy to house the fount of his unimaginable necrotic power. Four hundred years prior to present day, Symon Knox died at his writing desk, quill perched deftly in his left hand. Less than four days later he awoke, quill pierced through his gloved palm, with nothing writhing beneath his robes but the curse of rot and death. Blood drained to a pale-skinned touch he rose as a phantom of his true self, his blue eyes no longer clear but cloudy, his hair bleached to a cowardly white from the strawberry blond strands he inherited from his loving mother. Neither living nor a corpse, black vines twisted themselves into neat array over his skin like the fibres of muscle beneath it, only patches of pallour visible and even less with several centuries of rot between them. He may as well be nothing but a lich himself if not for that distinct craving for the true depth of his power, his knowledge lost but the presence of his master violently cramming itself into his brain--for four hundred years he must keep it out, keep it away, lest it overcome him in the absence of his psyche and steal away the last part of Symon he so desperately clings to.

Memories, emotions, senses, and functions trickle out over time, falling limp and blank and drawing to a close, but never quite reaching the point of dying. The body wants to die but Symon Knox rather wants to live, to see more out the polished glasses of his plague mask than he ever would as a young man dying of an incurable sickness. He may have died at twenty, but he lives to twenty-one every day--and although he never quite shakes the feeling of need, need to kill, need to die, need to watch the light leave their eyes, he's gotten quite good at shaking that voice loose and shoving it to the back of his mind. To find something else to fill it, that would do the job quite well....if only he had something to occupy every waking thought, someone so endearing he can't help but run them through his head every waking moment of every living day.

#plague doctor #symon knox #monster campus #monster campus lore #monster boyfriend #lich #ellie writes #anons

[teecupangel]

In a realm where the ethereal and mortal intertwined, there existed a sad ghost. Once a renowned writer in her mortal life, she now roamed the spectral plane with a heavy heart. Bound by her ghostly form, she found herself unable to wield a pen or ink, unable to pour her thoughts onto the pages as she once did.

Night after night, she would wander through moonlit corridors, her translucent form aglow with an ethereal shimmer. Her sighs echoed through the empty halls, a lament for the stories left untold. Her tears, shimmering like stardust, spoke of the creative fire that burned within her, trapped and unfulfilled.

It was during one of these solitary wanderings that the ghost encountered a mischievous yet compassionate ferret. Intrigued by the ghost's sorrowful cries, the ferret approached with gentle curiosity and empathetic eyes.

"Why do you weep, dear ghost?" He asked, his voice laced with concern.

The ghost, surprised by his presence, shared her anguish over the inability to write and express herself. Her words spilled forth, carrying the weight of a lifetime of stories left untold. The ferret listened intently, his heart stirred by her longing.

With a determined glint in his eyes, the ferret proposed a solution. "Let me be your voice, dear writer. Together, we shall craft a letter that carries the essence of your thoughts and emotions."

Intrigued and cautiously hopeful, she agreed, placing her trust in the ferret's paws. They found a quiet corner amidst the moonlit halls, where he transcribed her words onto parchment. The ghost whispered her tales, her hopes, and her dreams, while the ferret meticulously captured them with graceful strokes of the quill.

As the ink dried on the parchment, a letter of ethereal beauty and heartfelt emotion took shape. It was a vessel for the ghost's thoughts and a plea to be heard beyond the spectral realm.

Now came the challenge of finding a messenger who could carry the letter to a distant land, far beyond the boundaries of their realm. Fortunately, the ferret had a friend pegasus who has wings strong enough to cross realms and distant lands.

With a flourish the pegasus took off once more to deliver the letter. Meanwhile in the letter, the words written says: "I replayed this game called Death Palette and realized how dark and sad the story actually is so maybe a Desmond being in a painting after the solar flare and tempts templars to keep him and kills them off?"

It should have been nighttime when the pegasus reached the atelier yet the atelier and the surrounding forest were as bright as midsummer day.

When the pegasus landed on the well-worn road leading to the atelier, the heat that welcomed her felt more similar to a summer day that was precariously bordering over an impending heatwave.

The pegasus stomped the ground beneath her, not wishing to come any closer to the atelier where the heat seemed to be coming from and neighed loudly.

Thankfully, the alchemist was in and they opened the door, making the pegasus blink when they saw the alchemist’s attire.

Gone was the alchemist robes and they seemed to be wearing the lightest sleeping dress they had that was definitely not something one would wish to wear in public. Sunglasses covered their dark-colored eyes and a summer hat donned their head. Rain boots covered their feet and they made squishing sounds as they walked out of the atelier.

Wet.

The rain boots were wet. And it seemed also from the inside…

“Hey. So, uuuhhh… I’m just about done with my final solar bomb…” The alchemist said in lieu of a greeting and the pegasus heard them mumbled under their breath, “For now…”

“But it’s, well, it’s open right now and all the solar thingabob is spilling out so it would be better if you fly away from this place and rest somewhere else until I’m done.” The alchemist continued, “It should be done by morning so you can come back by then.”

“I understand.” The pegasus nodded. While she might not understand what this solar bomb was meant to do, she had an inkling that it was the one she had seen before on the table with its swirling flames colored like the sun. The pegasus flapped her wing open to show her bag as she asked, “Will it be alright if you were to take the letter now or should I come back with it later?”

“Oh, it’s fine. The heat and light won’t harm it.” The alchemist slowly opened the bag with their mitten covered hands and fished out the letter from her ferret friend as they continued to explain, “Plus, I’m gonna drop this on the cauldron as soon as I get back in the atelier anyway. The cauldron would keep it safe.”

“That’s good.” The pegasus let out a sigh of relief before bowing slightly at the alchemist as she said, “Then I shall return tomorrow morning. Good luck with the… solar bomb…”

“Thanks!” The alchemist cheerfully said and waved as the pegasus took flight once more.

The pegasus was sure she heard the alchemist shout, “The lake east of the forest has moon flowers that taste pretty good!”

… what… what did the alchemist think she eats???

==============================

For those curious, Death Palette is a mobile game so you can check it out using your phone’s in game app store.

Okay, my idea dwells more into the mystery than an actual ‘painting kills you’ kind of scenario so we’re playing fast and loose with Death Palette’s lore.

Abstergo checked the energy spiked that appeared on Turin, New York, and they got Desmond’s body.

From there, they used the body to make Sample 17 and start Abstergo Entertainment.

Then they released Ratonhnhaké:ton’s ‘game’ and players start posting something weird that they encounter while playing the game.

On some rare occasions, if you stay in the homestead for about two hours or so (real time), the game will glitch and load you into a darker more decrypt version of the manor.

Everything looks ready to fall apart and the floor board creaks whenever you move but if you keep moving and go to the master bedroom, there will be a painting there.

Pristine against the ruins around it, encased in a frame with wooden carvings of eagles all around it…

It was a painting of a man, wearing nothing but a cloth around him that made it look like a toga of some kind.

Drawn in a style eerily similar to Leonardo da Vinci yet seemed more… real…

The man is only drawn up to his waist and he looks straight into the player as he holds the world in his hands. His right hand up to his shoulder blackened and golden cracks glowed ever so slightly.

The frame itself held the title of the painting.

“Des Mondes”

The Worlds.

The posts grew traction for the face of the man in the painting looked to similar to previous main characters of Abstergo’s World’s Greatest Hitman series, Ezio Auditore and Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

And so…

People starting to look for it.

It was only by luck that a fan found the ruins of Davenport manor and lo and behold, the painting was there, at the very same place as the glitch had shown it.

People clambered to find out more.

Was this an elaborate promotional stunt by Abstergo?

Or did they just uncover a lost Da Vinci painting?

The painting is studied with care and they found out the following.

The painting was made on Aleppo oak wood which was common in Syria and it seemed that the painting itself had materials that were both from 12th century and 15th century.

The common consensus was that the original painting was done in 12th century, and it was painted once more in 15th century. From what they could find out, both paintings were similar, as if the painting of the 15th century had traced most of the 12th century painting and many aspect of the 12th century painting was preserved.

The world was purely done in the 12th century painting and it was clear that the landmasses included in the globe mirrored what the landmasses during the 12th century would look like.

And the man’s eyes… freckled with gold dust over a kaleidoscope of gold, honey brown and white… they had been noted as being painted in 12th century as well.

The toga seemed to be a 15th century addition as well as the crown of thorns around the man’s head.

But the frame itself…

It was definitely made around 17th to 18th century, from wood that used to be common in New York.

Specifically… Turin, New York.

The carvings of eagles were very similar to the eagle carvings of Native Americans.

Many fans speculate that the main character Connor Kenway must have carved it.

And the painting itself…

Must have been painted by both Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Ezio Auditore.

Strange how the man looked so similar to the man in the wanted posters that appeared all over the world in December 2012, huh?

And, obviously, Abstergo tries to get the painting for themselves.

There’s public outcry, of course.

Such a painting deserves to be in a museum!

But then…

Things got messy when the various government officials started stirring the pot.

Since the painting was mostly done by Ezio Auditore, that meant it was an Italian painting.

But then again, Ezio Auditore painted over Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad’s painting which many believe was bad form and that the painting should be attributed to the Syrian Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad instead.

Then there was the frame and the fact that the painting was found in Davenport manor where it’s last known owner is Connor Kenway (many shouts that he should be called by his real name: Ratonhnhaké:ton) which meant that the painting was property of the US. (… or is it???)

In the end, Abstergo swoops in and the painting is taken to Abstergo Entertainment as a ‘sign’ of their contribution to showing the true history of the world.

Secretly, Abstegro scientists check the painting for any Isu related materials and… find none.

No.

Perhaps the word none would be misleading.

The golden dust in the eyes and around the world and the borders of the painting…

Kept giving strange readings.

Yet, anyone who looks into it just keeps saying the same thing.

“It’s nothing special.”

The painting stays in Abstergo Entertainment.

And more and more Abstergo personnel, especially those high up the ladder, starts visiting.

Just to look.

And look.

And look…

And that was when…

The deaths began.

Different causes of deaths, different places…

But all have one thing in common.

They used to visit Abstergo Entertainment…

#is the golden dust slowly making them insane? #or is desmond truly haunting the painting? #or is this just a case of #the assassins faking the cause of death #and the painting is just a coincidence? #it’s not the last one #that’s for sure #the painting itself holds desmond’s ‘soul’ #and it was created after the solar flare #with the whole ‘history’ of the painting #meant to be a mirror of desmond’s bleeding effect #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed

[missamyrisa2]

A scenario where you’re tickle-punished by the Writer’s Guild for writing during the strike (kidding!)

I'm totally imagining a case of mistaken identity where the Guild mistakes me for someone who writes worthwhile things ~ and I'm promptly taken back to their HQ for hubris training which involves being bound to a conference room table as the strike is discussed and assistants are teasingly cleansing my ticklish skin throughout, excessively cleansing on the hottest spots under smirks and knowing eyes ~ and then the next order of business, how to deal with this Miss Amy ~ the writers don their fancy quill pens and begin etching all the reasons for the strike slowly and deliberately across my body, tingly soft ink working over my skin no matter how much I struggle ~ and they start reading them out, blowing gently on the drying inks to make me really squeak and squeal ~ the most intense wording of course inked around my royal areas~<3

[the-consortium]

An ancient form of vox recorder falls out of a long forgotten box. The absolute brick of technology clatters loudly, before whirring to life with static. No video feed, it's long since corrupted beyond saving. But a static-filled voice cheerfully chirps from the ancient speaker.

"-ius!! Good news! We get to move forward with---Project. Aren't yo--ted?" the voice has a slight drawl to it, but feminine. "The-- peror put up a good fight, but he saw reason after the-- th hour of arguing. I know it's not what you wanted, but I'm sure if you impress--" it cuts out for quite some time, "I promised you I'd get you that funding. I know you're destined to do great things." the voice changes, sounding almost motherly with how proud it is. "If pro--Eden goes off as planned, that is. But I have faith in you." static claims the recording once more.

"--ay!! Okay!! Garth told me to wrap it up, we're taking off now. Keep those-- safe, and don-- without me." The feed dies completely after that. The last breath of something from long, long ago. Old tech, but it held on long enough to deliver its final message.

The moment when the day becomes interesting for Oleander is when the Chief Apothecary throws an ancient-looking device back into the small transport box that sits on his desk and, with a curse in his Terran dialect - not quite Oleander's native region - gets up and leaves the study. Apparently he has forgotten about his student's presence.

So far, both apothecaries have spent the morning comparing the results of experiments and entering them in charts. Actually, something the chief apothecary certainly wouldn't have to do himself, but Fabius enjoys letting his mind wander now and then while he pursues a repetitive activity that only demands a few percent of his intellect.

Half an hour earlier, one of the mutant serfs came and placed the old and battered-looking transport box on a corner of Fabius' desk. Stared piercingly at the Chief Apothecary. But when there was no reaction, the creature waddled out again.

Oleander was rather peripherally aware of this event. In principle, nothing unusual.

Irritability is also nothing really rare with Fabius. The Chief Apothecary is only too aware of being the most intelligent in the room most of the time and likes to let everyone know it.

But this time seems different.

Oleander steps up to Fabius' desk. Pushes aside the datapads that have piled up on the dark wooden surface like driftwood on the edge of an exotic sea. Carefully and with reverence, he places Fabius' antique quill pen in its holder. Then he reaches for the vox recorder from the box. Turns it on.

A minute and two replays of the message later, he is no smarter than before.

What is this? And from whom? And above all - what has Fabius got to do with it? Oleander turns the recorder in his hands. Is he curious? Of course he is! Can he do something about it? Well, at least the origin can be clarified. And perhaps recover the rest of the message. But one must proceed with caution. Fabius is already angry enough.

Fortunately, Oleander has contacts with some Hereteks who still owe him favours. Time to check in with them again. And see if they can find out anything about the device and the message.

#Warhammer #Fabius Bile #Ask Post #Oleander Koh

[theenchantedecho]

I’m sure Caitriona won’t mourn her husband long she has her sights on Benny it seems.

My dear Astute Observationalist,

Your delectable morsel of gossip has sent my quill into an absolute frenzy! Caitriona Burke, the infamous widow who's never been one to shy away from controversy, and Benny, who you say has caught her roving eye. Oh, how the rumour mill churns!

Indeed, it seems our dear Caitriona never truly donned the garb of mourning, despite the tragic loss of her husband. And now, with the passage of time, one might argue that the window for grief has well and truly closed, leaving her free to embark on a new romantic escapade. But with a man named Benny, you say? How terribly intriguing!

Now, Benny does sound suspiciously like a Muggle name, doesn't it? And as we all know, the pureblood Burke family is infamous for their strict adherence to blood purity. What a delightfully scandalous twist this would be in Caitriona's tale, a twist worthy of your favourite poison pen-wielding gossip columnist!

Can you just imagine the whispers and gasps of shock as Caitriona, that notorious beauty, flaunts her new paramour before the scandalised eyes of wizarding society? Oh, the delicious drama it would cause! I simply cannot wait to see how this tantalising tale unfolds.

As always, thank you for feeding my insatiable appetite for intrigue and scandal, dear reader. Do continue to regale me with your delicious insights, and remember, Rita Skeeter is always listening...

Yours in scandal,

Rita Skeeter

@caitrionaebing

#I know Benjy is misspelled #but Rita and I guess anyone else would t know about Cait and Benjy since they are very very secretive so #gossip about Benny lol #ch:Caitriona Burke #mobile reply

[histoireettralala]

In Memoriam

First there were the sparkle of a new century; the splendour of the Universal Expositions; the race to progress; the series of calm, serene Sundays; the swaying gait of the Apaches and of the hips of dactylos on a spree in the guinguettes of the banks of the Seine or the Marne. Trips to the mountains or to spa towns, for a sunny Sunday. The trend of sea baths; again and forever, a time of long dresses, hat pins, hat veils and sunshades to protect oneself from the sun; the first fevers of the metropolitan; the magic of tramways. A smell of rail and electricity.

There were the shapes of the Art Nouveau, the fashion of stem-like women with vegetal curves, who were starting to escape and free themselves from their corsets. Parisian ladies had large hats and tiny feet. Men were smoking their first Gauloises. There were of course, riots and strikes: electricians, civil servants, site workers, postmen, bar waiters, taxi drivers. Men wanted to build and shape their destiny. They wanted a better share of the riches of the world.

There was the Montmartre of the painters and the Bateau-Lavoir; the first aerial meetings; the Paris flooding; the comet of Halley passing by; the appearance of the first tangos; the first music halls; the inauguration of the Vél'd'Hiv and the Gaumont Palace; the theft of the Mona Lisa; the end of the Bande à Bonnot; the publication of La Guerre des Boutons; the meeting between Yvonne de Quiévrecourt and Alain-Fournier under the trees of the Cours La Reine, which so narrowly missed the Goncourt prize; the first phone cabins; the electrification of the railway; the first Michelin maps; the fashion of caps et boaters; the invention of esperanto.

It was peace. The promise of a new dawn, the carefree spirit of summer, the peace of fields spattered with cornflowers and poppies which were waiting the sickle of the harvester or the knife of the thrasher.

They were seventeen, twenty-five, or thirty. Many wore their hair short, and moustaches. Many had the rough neck and hands of the worker, a laborer's worn fingers, a turner's or mechanic's broken nails. There were grooms, land surveyors, bakers, butlers, office boys, clerk notaries, butchers, schoolteachers, peddlers, copywriters, cow keepers, porters, shepherds, priests, grinders, cooks, toolmakers, clerks, chauffeurs, footmen, tinsmiths, deliverers, boilermakers, newsboys, barbers, railway workers, waiters, postmen, intellectuals, factory workers, bourgeois, aristocrats and saddlers.

Suddenly there were civilians, career soldiers, conscripts, reservists, artillery men, navy men, infantry men, zouaves, aviators, pioneers, stretcher-bearers, liaison officers, telegraphers, non-commissioned officers, submariners, cooks, adjudtants, generals, lieutenants, chaplains, canteen-workers, cavalry men, bleus, rappelés, permissionnaires, etc… Suddenly, were the Poilus.

Their handwriting was round or sharp; it had the delicacy of the quill or the thick stroke of the ink pen. Their names were Gaston, Jean, Auguste, Marcel, Louis, Alexandre, Edmond, Martin, Antoine, Etienne, Maurice, Albert, Henri, Roger, René… Their wives or their mothers were named Félicie, Léontine, Hortense, Louise, Honorine, Clémence, Marguerite, Berthe, Germaine, Yvonne, Marthe…

All of them travellers without baggage who had to leave their families, their fiancees, their wives, their children. Leave there their office, their lathe, their kneader, their workshop or their stable. Don the poorly cut uniform, the garance trousers, the bumpy képi. Take on the too heavy barda and put on the cleated shoes.

They knew very soon that this war was senseless. From false hopes to false hopes, from last battles to last battles, they ended up unable to project the end of the war whose actors they were, and whose usefulness wasn't so obvious anymore to them.

Out of eight million mobilised between 1914 and 1918, over two million young men never saw again the belltower of their village. Their names are carved in the cold stone of the monuments of our cities and towns. And when the church goes quiet, when the school is closed, when the train station is shut down, when silence reigns over these places that became hamlets, remain these lists of words, these lists of names and surnames keeping the memory of a France whose countryside was so populated.

Over four million men survived only after they suffered grievous wounds, their body broken, amputated, marked, bitten, their flesh torn, when they weren't seriously mutilated. Others got out apparently intact: they still lived with the memory of the horror they had lived for over fifty months, the memory of blood, of the stench of rotting corpses, of the bursting of shells, of stinking mud, of vermin, the memory of the obscene smirk of Death. They had for them the systematic and reoccuring lash of nightmares for the rest of their days and with it the anguished, unanswered cry, the cry for their mothers. They lived with the words reminding them of sights whose horror they would never forget: Galipoli, Verdun, the Chemin des Dames, Arlon-Vitron, the mill of Laffaux, the Somme, Ypres, Péronne, Montmirail, Douaumont, the Fort of Vaux…

Over eight thousand people answered the call of Radio France: eight thousand letters, meaning that many families searching, into a coffer in the attic, between the yellowed pages of family photo albums, for the memory of their fathers', grandfathers', ancestors' lives.

These words written in the mud aren't eighty, or eighty-five years old; they are one day old. They have the whole strength of a life all the more intense since it was so close to the abyss, since it was looking at death every second.

We do not claim to do a historian's work by gathering in a few weeks so many powerful and intense documents: our purpose is before all humanist and literary. We simply meant to let these cries of the soul, entrusted to quill and crayon, be heard, like so many bottles thrown to the sea, which should stimulate for future generations the duty of memory, the duty of vigilance, the duty of humanity.

Jean-Pierre Guéno- Paroles de Poilus- Lettres et carnets du front 1914-1918

#xx #jean-pierre guéno #book: paroles de poilus #la grande guerre #ww1 #i'm sorry the translation is rough and hurried

[darklabyrinthclothing]

Study Tips for the Scholar in You

Spring semester is fast approaching for college students, and that means a return to scrambling for last-minute answers on that one elusive topic before quiz day.. Only to realize that, once the paper is actually in front of you, the material you reviewed has already left your memory. If your current study methods are failing you, here are some new ones to consider!

Romanticize the Act of Study

The easiest first step is to make the act of studying more appealing. You can accomplish this in a few different ways!

Scented Candles: In addition to their ability to provide a more aesthetic form of lighting, you can find candles that give off a variety of appealing scents. From flowery fragrances to the scent of old parchment in an ancient library, scented candles are an excellent option for setting the mood of your study session!

"Study Spots": Find a dedicated “spot” for studying, such as the library of your campus or any other of your choice. Libraries are often quiet locations suitable for study, and are great for eliminating any distractions you might encounter in your home.

Use "Aesthetic" Tools: Instead of a standard pencil or pen, investing in a fountain pen is an excellent way to set the stage to envision yourself as a scholar chasing after knowledge. With each dip in the inkwell and stroke upon the page, you grow nearer to your goal. Perhaps you might prefer ink and quill to a fountain pen?

Dress Up: Don’t be content to study in your pajamas; don clothes befitting a professor. By switching up your outfit from one you might typically associate with lazing about to one associated with productivity and learning, your mindset also changes and motivation will more readily come to you.

Hourglass Timers: Rather than using a phone alarm to determine when your allotted study time has ended, opt for a lower tech alternative: an hourglass! These are fairly simple to find and can often be located with a quick search for whichever duration of time you need measured.

Study Playlists: Setting the mood for a study session may be made easier if you have a specific playlist set aside for this task. Classical and Jazz often provide excellent background to an intensive session, though any genre of your choice works!

Written Notes & Legibility

Neatly written and formatted notes are more easily studied than messy ones. To capture all information from a lecture while also maintaining clean notes, keep one notebook (any and all subjects) for scribbling notes into during class. Keep another notebook (one subject) to transcribe the lecture notes into once the lecture has concluded. This way, you will be able to format your notes as you please without worrying about missing out on information presented during lecture.

In addition, memory recall is better for words that have been written down rather than typed. If you're struggling to recall information from your class notes, you may want to switch out that keyboard for pen/pencil and paper!

Daily Task Planners & Calendars

By keeping a daily task planner, you will be able to track how much you've done throughout the day. Crossing out a completed task may provide a sense of accomplishment and thereby motivation to complete the rest of the list. These tasks can range from chores as simple as "Do laundry" to "Begin work on <Subject> project".

Calendars provide a visual of upcoming assignments, exams, or other important dates. By placing one in a frequently-viewed area such as your door, you are more likely to prepare for important dates ahead of time as the sense of urgency is more present than it would be if it were merely a number in your head.

Study Groups

Coordinate with your fellow academics and assemble a study group together outside of class! However, make sure you don't simply "divide and conquer" -- this can lead to a fragmented understanding of the course material. Instead, work on the same problem and then compare answers afterward. Focus on why something is the solution, rather than only trying to find out what that something is. As an added benefit, study groups can foster connections within your major. This can be useful post-graduation when searching for opportunities to progress in your field of study.

Consistent & Efficient Study Times

Cramming is inefficient if the goal is long-term retention of course material. Instead, spread your study out across a longer period, and be consistent with the time that you dedicate to study. This will help reinforce the act until it becomes habit. For example, if you choose to study at 8-9 P.M., don't delay or put it off for another day unless something occurs where the regular session is impossible to achieve. Once you are able to return to your initial schedule though, make sure to do so.

For more efficient study sessions, set a goal before you begin. This gives you a clear end to work toward rather than repeating material that you may already know.

The 9-8-7 Rule

This is a rule that may not necessarily work for everyone, but it provides a framework for time allocation. The rule is not strict, and can be altered to suit an individual's lifestyle and needs. There are variations such as the 8-8-8 rule and many others.

9 hours for study

8 hours for sleep

7 hours for other activities (including leisure activities and, if a student, time spent working a job)

~Happy studying!

#academia #light academia #dark academia #college #studying #study motivation #student #dark academic aesthetic #light academic aesthetic #school #exams #high school #spring semester #academia aesthetic #university

[extremely-moderate]

The Gentle Art of Obituary: A Founding Father's Guide to Extreme Political Moderation

Ah, the art of obituary writing - a true delicate dance that requires the utmost tact and grace. And what better way to approach this solemn task than with the wisdom and insight of one of our esteemed Founding Fathers? With a little bit of historical flair and a touch of wit, here's our guide to being extremely politically moderate about obituaries, taken straight from the annals of American history. 1. Channel your inner Benjamin Franklin: Start by donning your spectacles and posing in front of a quill pen. Look the part and feel the part of a wise, measured voice in the political arena. 2. Avoid partisan jabs: Sure, it may be tempting to throw a few politically-charged zingers into your obituary, but let's resist the urge, shall we? We're going for moderation here, so stay away from anything that might cause undue offense. 3. Highlight both virtues and flaws: A truly balanced obituary is one that acknowledges the strengths and weaknesses of the departed. Remember, no one is perfect, including our founding heroes - so don't shy away from mentioning their flaws alongside their achievements. 4. Use eloquent language: When crafting your obituary, make liberal use of phrases like 'endeared to many' and 'a voice of reason'. Emulate the eloquence of the Founding Fathers themselves and their ability to inspire through language. 5. Advocate for unity: In a world where division seems ever-present, take this opportunity to highlight how the life of the departed brought people together. Emphasize their ability to bridge gaps and find common ground among diverse groups - this is the essence of political moderation. Remember, being politically moderate about obituaries isn't about being lukewarm or wishy-washy. It's about finding a thoughtful balance, just as the Founding Fathers did when crafting the very structures upon which our nation was built. So approach obituary writing with nuance, wisdom, and a healthy dose of historical perspective.

#obituary #Politics #Moderation

[crristinaa-level6]

Specialist practice: Research

Fact 

Not all Spaniards are native speakers of (Castilian) “Spanish” There are 4 official languages in Spain Castilian, catalan, basque and Galician. There are 3 unofficial  regional languages like Asturian, Arogonese, and Aranese and several more dialects 

The Spanish people have a completely different life rhythm from other Europeans. They typically have lunch 1and 3 pm and dinner around 10 pm

Spanish culture greatly influenced modern art from the late 1800s with artists like Antoni Gaudi (Art Nouveau) Pablo Picasso ( expressionism, cubism, surrealism) Joan Miro (Surrealism) and Salvador Dali (Surrealism)

Flamenco is not actually a dance; it is a musical style, which sometimes has dancing in it 

58 million tourists go to Spain every year, making it the fourth most visited country in the world 

Spain is renowned for its lively festivals, including San Fermin (running of the bulls) in Pamplona and the Tomatina (tomato battle) in Bruñol

More than 150,000 tomatoes  are usually thrown at La Tommatina 

The official name of the Spain is the Kingdom of Spain 

The national anthem of Spain has no words 

There are no laws about public nudity in Spain

43% of the world’s olive oil production is done in Spain 

From 2008 to 2013 sSpainnation football team was named FIFA Team of the Year 

Spain is one of the only eight national teams to be crowned FIFA World Cup champions (2010)

The tooth fairy is amere rodent in Spain referred to as Ratoncito Perez 

Breaks, free time and siestas are a huge part of everyday Spanish culture 

Spain was the world’s third most popular tourist destination in 2013 

Don Quixote, the famous book written by Spanish author Miguel De Cervantes in 1605, was voted the “most meaningful book of all the time” in 2002 by a panel of 100 top authors 

Traditionally, you have 2 surnames in Spain - the first surname from your father and the second from your mum

Spaniards celebrated the New Year by eating one grape with their family for each bell strike of the clock 

The quill pen is thought to have originated in Spain  about 1400 years ago

The Spanish often use gestures with, or to substitute for words. Flicking the teeth with the thumbnail, wiggling fingers from the nose and grabbing the left arm with the right while making a left-handed fist are all thought to be offensive 

There are fewer marriages in Spain than in any other EU country except Sweden

The divorce rate in Spain is 17% 

Madrid is in the physical centre of the country and the Plaza Puerta Del Sol is the exact centre of the country 

Spain has the social highest number of bars per inhabitants 

#specialist practice #research #visual communication

[donatello-writes]

If you're writing prompts, how about “Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?” -with Donnie where he's oblivious that his crush likes him?

Donatello had been at work in his laboratory for several days straight. The brainy turtle was like a well oiled machine, only instead of oil, he ran on black coffee. From his brothers’ accounts, he hadn’t left his lab once. This was unacceptable. You knew him all too well, and that meant he’d been so engrossed in his project that self-care took a back seat. He was notorious for putting his work before himself. Such dedication was admirable, but you cared for him, and couldn’t allow him to continue on this way.

After work you dropped by his favorite Italian restaurant and picked up some good old fashioned spaghetti and meat balls. And of course, tiramisu for dessert. You strolled into the lair with all the confidence in the world that you could convince him to take a break, even if just to have a quick bite to eat. Entering the laboratory, it was dark, the only light offered was thanks to his countless computer monitors. As you approached you could hear the sound of rigorous typing and mumbles escaping him. He didn’t say a word, but was aware of your presence, peering over his shoulder quickly before refocusing. 

“Donnie, I brought you some Italian.”

“Hold on, I need to get this down.” He replied, not ceasing his typing for even a second. When this went on for more than a few minutes, you spoke up once more. 

With a sing-song intonation you hoped to sway him, “I even got your favorite…Tiramisu.”

Not a peep came from the busy boy. Perhaps if food wasn’t the answer, seduction was. Being as shy as you were, you never had the guts to express your feelings for him. And you’d certainly never once been brave enough to make such bold moves with him previously, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Flirting wasn’t exactly a specialty of yours, however, you were prepared to do anything for the sake of his well being. Pulling inspiration from the countless romantic comedies you’d seen over the years, a clever line swiftly came to mind. 

“Ooh, this Bunsen burner is hot…” You started, walking your fingers up his shoulder, “Just like someone else I know.”

He was quick to brush your hand away, absentmindedly. When he didn’t so much as look up from his task, you frowned. Time to kick it up a notch, pull out the big guns. Was he ready for the heavy artillery? There was no time for stupid questions or hesitation, now was the time for ACTION. 

“Someone as brilliant as you should know that lack of proper nutrition can impair cognitive function.”

That was enough to garner and laugh from the tall terrapin, snorts soon following. “You’ve been hanging around me too much.”

The way his nose twitched every time he snorted was so charming it should be illegal. If you were a cuteness cop, you’d arrest him for aggressive adorableness. Playful giggles left you along with your response, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” One of your hands then reached up and softly traced his shell. Once again, he didn’t react, still deeply focused. With a frustrated huff, you moved in intimately close and whispered, “It’s not a bad thing.”Nothing.

That was the last straw, you couldn’t handle his indifference for a moment longer. “Alright, listen up!” You exclaimed, “Get your cute-ass self up, eat, maybe stretch…and I know you won’t agree to sleeping, but at least take a nap!" 

The sudden burst of anger nearly caused him to jump from his seat, and he spun around in his chair to face you, glasses almost falling from his face. It was all so unexpected that the compliment on his appearance was nearly missed…Nearly. 

"D-did you just call me…c-cute?” He stammered out the question, adjusting his glasses as his eyes met with yours. “Are you flirting with me?”

“You finally noticed?” You chuckled, a faint blush crossing your cheeks. “You know…For a genius, you’re really dense sometimes.” Feeling a rush of anxiety take hold, you turned to leave only to feel the gentle tug of his hand on your wrist.

“Forgive me, but…Please don’t go.” Clasping your hand, he gently petted it with his thumb as he asked shyly, “Would you like to join me for dinner? There’s more than enough for two." 

Elated at his words, but composed in your answer, you nodded. With a soft smile, he led you back to his work table. Pushing his papers, keyboard, and various sundries aside, he made room for eating. The two of you talked for hours. More flirtatious words flew and laughter filled the air. After that, he promised to sleep, and he did. Ever since that night, you started visiting whenever he overworked himself; and for that, he’s incredibly thankful. It wasn’t about you taking care of him that mattered, it was you showing that you cared. 

#*launches off into space* I am over the moon for this nerdle someone please send HALP #houston we have a problem #tmnt x reader #donatello x reader #bayverse tmnt #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt donatello #my writing #don's quill pen

[harrysweasleys]

know-it-all // g.w

summary: Could you please write a fluffy fic about George and a Ravenclaw reader arguing about an answer on an exam or an assignment. And in the end it turns out George was right. And I would love it if you could include the exchange, "Don't say it!" "I told you so." "I said don't say it."

warnings: mentions of food

word count: 1.7k

a/n: i am back with my twin fics! woah! it’s been a while, sorry about that. life has been wild and i didn’t have much motivation but here we go! i hope you all enjoy!! x

[i do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other platform!]

For what felt like the billionth time of that afternoon, you dropped your head onto the table and let your forehead smack against the solid wooden surface. You could feel different sets of eyes peering in your direction from other tables in the library, all silently questioning what was wrong with you. 

The answer was simple: Potions.

Snape had set out a stupid assignment that, to be completely fair, was way out of your league. For every time you thought he was an awful professor, he sunk remarkably lower. 

The topic of said assignment was one that you guys hadn’t even covered yet, and given by Snape’s tone of voice when a student had brought that very point up in class, he really couldn’t care less. It didn’t help that you were already ridiculously occupied with other end-of-year assignments — you didn’t want to get stuck teaching yourself a whole new branch of potion-making as well. You were barely sleeping nights and only showed up to dinner every second day, the library study hours becoming your very best friend. 

It was just a lot. 

It also didn’t help that you could see the golden rays of the sunlight pouring in through the dusty library window, signalling that it was once again the end of the day, and tomorrow, bright and early, you’d be handing in the assignment that you were nearly certain you’d botched. 

Dinner was likely being prepared in the Great Hall right about now, the wonderful smell of roast potatoes and pumpkin juice running through your mind, but you honestly weren’t up to eating. You were feeling rather down in the dumps, forehead still pressed against the wooden table, and your mind reeling around the assignment.

“You look like you could use some assistance.”

You lifted your gaze, sure that there was now a bright red spot on your forehead, and glared over at George, who had just taken the seat across from you at the table. His grin was wide but his eyes were tired — you knew he was busy working on assignments of his own, as well his summer plans for opening the shop. Yet somehow he always found time to help you. 

He tilted his head to the side when you gave him an exhausted stare, blinking rapidly before you processed his question. 

“Do you remember doing this last year?” you asked, sliding over the assignment paper, giving a small cough to clear your dry throat. George, being in the year ahead of you, had quite the knack for Potions. He liked to say it was because it was just utterly fascinating and he was a purely, genuinely, naturally gifted student, but you knew he only did so well because he’s been brewing his own disastrous concoctions since he was a young boy. With practice comes skill, you always said. 

And you prayed to Merlin that said skill would come in handy right about now. 

His eyes scanned the paper and he gave a small shake of his head, “No, but I think you’ve got this wrong. You wrote Leech Juice here, but I’m pretty sure the answer is actually Acromantula Venom.”

You frowned, snatching the paper back from him — making him flinch and take a quick look at his fingers for any paper cuts — and stared down at your answer, “What? No. The obvious answer is Leech Juice. This was the only question I understood. I know the answer to this one, it’s the others that I can’t seem to figure out.”

He raised an eyebrow, “It’s Acromantula Venom, darling. That I know for sure.”

Though you were grateful for his presence and the fact that he was willing to help, you knew he was wrong about that one. Any first year could tell the answer was Leech Juice. But you didn’t feel like arguing with him any more than necessary with time running low, so you just gave your paper back and frowned.

“Can you help me with any of these? Professor Snape hasn’t said a single thing about any of these topics, and I’m sick of flipping through book after book, not even sure what I’m looking for,” you let out a sigh, “It feels like he’s purposefully setting us up for failure,” you muttered the last part under your breath, not wanting anyone other than George to hear your complaints.

His hand reached across the table and linked with yours, his soft fingers calming down the rapid, stressed-out beating of your heart, and gave you a small smile, “If he hasn’t taught you this, I’m sure that you’re not the only one having a hard time.”

You groaned, trying to pull your hand out of his, unfortunately failing as his grip was stronger than yours. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you said, voice low, “I don’t want to fail, even if everyone else does. That’ll always show up on my reports.”

He pursed his lips, giving you a small nod, “Alright, I get that. Why don’t you take a break? We’ll go eat, and then finish this up later, yeah? You can head over to the Common Room with me after dinner, I doubt anyone will say anything.”

A sigh left your lips as you began to place your parchment and books into a pile, George grabbing your ink bottle and quill — which had kindly left little indents in your hand due to aggressive use — and the two of you began to make your way to the Great Hall. 

After leaving the library, you could feel a weight lifted off of your shoulders. As if the tense study environment that you had felt stuck in had now been leeched away from you. As if you could now think clearly. You gave George a small smile, thankful that he arrived when he did. 

Merlin, why was sixth year so difficult? If it wasn’t for George’s calmness and sanity, you’d probably be a melted mess of failed papers and shining blue robes on the floor. 

As you made your way into the Hall, heading towards the Ravenclaw table, George pressed a kiss to your forehead and muttered, “Acromantula Venom,” against your skin, shooting you a wink before he made off to his own house table. 

You gave a small scowl, mouthing “Leech Juice” right back at him. 

— —

“Oh, well, now would you look at that,” George grinned, looking down at the assignment you were shoving in his face. A bright smile donned your lips as you flashed the score, a bright red E. 

Exceeds Expectations. 

It wasn’t the O — Outstanding — that you were hoping for, but Merlin, did the E feel good. That meant you had done better than Snape was expecting — and better than a majority of the class, by the looks of it. They had all walked out with solemn faces and shoved their papers in their bags as quickly as possible. Even the Slytherin girl who sat behind you, the one who always bragged about perfect grades and how much Snape favoured her, had left without saying a word. That fact alone really boosted your pride. 

“No thanks to your brilliant boyfriend,” George gave himself a pat on the back, giving you your now-crumpled paper. 

“Oh, sod off,” you gave him a nudge in the shoulder as you sat down on the couch next to him, the Gryffindor common room rather silent for this early in the evening. Despite being a Ravenclaw, passing students didn’t mind your presence in their house. After three years of dating George and always being in the space, they barely even noticed the blue of your tie amongst the red ones anymore. 

“Wait, what’s this?” George rapidly snatched the paper out of your hands — revenge for when you did it to him, most likely — and his eyes lingered on question number four, “Oh, well, would you look at that?”

You scowled, crossing your arms over your chest in preparation for his comment, “Don’t say it.”

His grin was so wide, you swore his cheeks would split, “You got Leech Juice wrong! And right here, scribbled in Snape’s hardly-legible writing, what does that say? It looks like A-Acro-,” 

“Don’t,” you didn’t meet his eyes, a sour expression on your face as George rubbed it in. 

“I told you so,” he leaned forwards, pressing a light kiss against your temple, arm slinging around you to bring you against his body. His warmth radiated through his sweater and it wasn’t helping the pettiness you were feeling in your chest. 

“I said don’t say it,” you grumbled, snapping your head away from him and staring at the blank brick wall next to the fireplace. His laugh vibrated through your body, and it took everything in you not to turn around and laugh with him. 

He placed one of his hands under your chin and turned your gaze to meet his, “Come on, I’m only playing. I’m proud of you, and I knew you’d do well. You were worried for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing!” you flailed your arms, letting them fall on your lap, “He sprung this out of the blue. Of course I was worried.”

“And you did brilliantly,” he pressed another kiss to your temple, sparks fluttering across your skin as his loving touch, “You always do, my brilliant little witch.”

You cracked.

A small smile made its way onto your lips as you leaned into his touch, loving the feeling of being close to him. And it felt even sweeter knowing that you hadn’t failed — that this was a victory hug. 

“Love you,” he mumbled against your hand, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and pressing a kiss on each one. You leaned your head on his shoulder, bringing your lips to his neck to mumble the same words against his skin. 

A victory. 

taglist

@grierpilots @hxfflxpxffs @mikumana @msmimimerton @pit-and-the-pen @diary-of-an-onliner @thoseofgreatambition @theweasleysredhair @haphazardhufflepuff @awritingtree @thisismysketchbook @valwritesx @vogueweasley @hufflrpuffforfred @phuvioqhile @marvelettesassemble @shadowsinger11 @breadqueen95 @hahee154hq @inglourious-imagines @amourtentiaa @barneswidow @spacexcowgirl @lumos-barnes @gcdricreads @bolaurel​ @almostweepingbanana​ @ickle-ronniekins​ @iprobablyshipit91​ @wand3ringr0s3​ @susceptible-but-siriusexual​ @amhyeah​ @a-castle-of--glass @freddie1978 @lumosandnoxwriting​ @rosaliepostsstuff​ @darthwheezely​ @parseltongueswriting @pandaxnienke​ @esmeralda-a @freds-slut​ @slytherinlovesgryffindor

#george weasley imagine #george weasley imagines #george weasley x reader #george weasley reader insert #george weasley one shot #george weasley one shots

[downywrites]

Here. You now what, take this. It’s not really tickles, per se, but boy is it affectionate. Have fun, little beans.

Philza gets his wings preened. That’s it, that’s the prompt. Also, it’s SMPEarth. Fight me. 

The sound of a scratching quill echoed in the room. The crackle and pop of a warm fire surrounded the winged man at the desk, orange-yellow light flickering and shifting with its every whim. The smell of charcoal and pen-ink left a faint imprint in his nose, giving him a slight urge to sneeze. Smoothly pushing himself away from the desk in a small attempt at getting himself more comfortable, he stretched his arms out skywards, wings unfolding in a glittering blanket of stars and galaxies and obsidian and everything that one could associate with the ivory sight of the night. As his wings shifted in the soft light, the white diamond shapes on the edges of his wings rippled across the vast expanse of feathers, dancing softly in the deep waters of his mussed-up appendages. He yawned, tears springing up a little in his earnest fervor of movement. Looking at the book and quill lying innocuously on the polished spruce desk, he chuckled quietly at the page he was currently stuck on. ‘Out of all things to get stuck on, I got stuck on the aspect of combat that I do the best in.’

 He stood up from the desk, world tilting precariously from his sudden change of balance. Stumbling a little, he stepped down the stairs into the large area of the living room. Groping around in the relatively dark area for the light-source lever, he sighed in relief when the lights burst to life. The sound of torches crackling in and around the room soothed his frazzled nerves. He sank into a nearby couch, cooing softly as velvet enveloped his twitching wings. His eyes shifted skywards again, instincts pushing him to spread out his wings and fly, fly into the deep, shifting skies. But it was late. The sky grew too dark to see, not without the light of a few lamps of some sort. And he certainly didn’t want to anger any neighboring countries, not without Techno’s help. So he sat there, relaxing in the surroundings. But something was off. He knew it. The itching in the very edges of his wings told him exactly what he needed to know. He sat up, ramrod straight.

 ‘God, why do I need to preen so much? Really, I’m not even in molting season yet!’ At his command, his midnight-hued wings extended, flapping slightly to give himself a little more space to work with. He focused on the right wing first, straightening the crooked feathers there. Feather after feather was aligned. The sound of the grandfather clock in the edge of the room went unnoticed. Too absorbed in his work to notice the sound of the door opening and the howling wind of the outside area, the winged hybrid froze at the familiar monotone voice echoing behind him.

 “Phil. Need help?” He jumped slightly, wings folding back in surprise. Before he knew it, he had let out an embarrassingly high-pitched ‘peep’. He whirled around quickly, blue and white bucket hat making a small ‘whoosh’. Techno raised an eyebrow at the reaction, before beginning to take off his cloak. “ ‘m not kidding. I need your wings to be in tip-top shape. We’re going to fight Spain eventually, you know? Viva la revolution.” Philza felt blood rush to his cheeks. “Y-you- I- b-barely even know you yet-” Techno turned to look at him dramatically, long pink hair framing his movements elegantly. He narrowed his eyes a little, tusks shifting a little from its constant natural pout into a real one. “Barely know me? Now that’s just mean.” He stepped onto the fluffy doormat, rubbing his hooves on it in an attempt to get off as much snow as physically possible. He hung his crown on a hook before stepping slowly towards the bird-man, not wanting to startle his (relatively new) ally.

 Philza shied away a little, wings fluffing up defensively. He cast his eyes to the side, stuttering. “I-Ididn’tmeanitlikethatit’sjustwellIjustmetyouawhileagoandpreeningisareallyreallysensitiveaffairinavianslikemeand-” He covered his mouth with one of his hands, eyes wide in shock. “I-I’m so sorry! I’ll just g-go!” He got up quickly, legs shaking. The sound of his feet padding on the floor quickly cut through the soft, relative silence of the mansion. 

The sound of his feathers rustling was the thing that made Techno realize the change in the situation. The piglin hybrid turned to look at the staircase he disappeared into in almost disbelief. Key word- almost. He sighed, hitting himself on the head gently with the heel of his hand. “Stupid. I should have known.” His gaze shifted to the imprint where the flighty warrior was minutes earlier, noticing the small feathers splayed out on the couch here and there. He closed his eyes, trying to think of what the reason for plucking out such small feathers would be. ‘Curse my memory. Do I really not know why he might have done this?’ He wracked his brain for answers for a few moments more, before sighing and pulling out a book from one of the chests. “Now, where is it?” He flipped through the pages, parchment making small crackling noises as he moved through it. “How to pet your avian friend, making small talk, blah blah..there!” He opened the book fully, triumph full on his features. “How to preen your avian friend platonically! I thought I haven’t read it!” He perused through the pages at a speed only english majors with a burning hatred of long-term work can handle, before closing the book quietly. He whispered softly to the voices, “You think we can pull this off?” The voices whispered bits and pieces of encouragement, with little to no spam for once in quite a while. He grinned a little, ears flicking happily. ‘It’s been a while since they haven’t spammed something. It’s good to see they are beginning to realize the idea of less is more!’ (They did not realize this. This became apparent later in his life, when he decided to meet with him and his old allies on the DreamSMP.)

 He sneaked up the stairs, tail flicking mischievously behind him. The sounds of the floorboards creaking made him wince a little, hoping his shy ally would assume that was simply due to the howling storm outside the large building. Creeping up the stairs slowly, he scanned the room for the familiar sight of dark black wings. When he saw none, he stood straight up, frowning a bit. “Where would he have gone?” He checked the whole of the room much more thoroughly, even going so far as to check underneath the large desk that Phil loved to work at. As he came out from the area underneath, swearing softly to himself when he bumped his head on the way out, he glanced at the words on the page. Crimson eyes widened in realization. ‘Oh, he must have went to the dressing-room to go out.’ He chuckled lightly, mischief glinting in his eyes once again. ‘That just means I get to ambush him in a completely different way. Seems like a piece of cake for me.’

 Philza was completely and utterly flustered by the piglin, There was no way around this fact. Even though more than half an hour had passed since that incident, his heart refused to stop racing. Everytime he felt that he was finally getting over it, the ever so slight itch of his wings would remind him.  He groaned, gently falling to the floor in a heap. ‘If I can’t deal with him simply asking me, how am I going to deal with the real thing? Wait.’ He paused, squeaking louder at the idea he just insinuated. ‘Did I just talk about the real thing? Nonono, there's no way I’ll let him touch my wings. No, no. No way. Not in a million years. No, not him. I can’t get attached. What if he’s just doing it for affection? He might not know what he’s doing. I can’t let him. No.’ He shook his head vehemently. Pleased with the result of his thought processes, he got up, gently putting on his training kimono. A hiss of discomfort escaped him as one of his pinfeathers brushed against the light fabric as he donned the second part of his garment. The sound of hoofsteps increasing in volume made his heartrate soar. A gentle rap at the door confirmed his suspicions.

 “Phil? May I come in?” 

He turned around quickly, heartbeat pumping loudly in his ears. He slipped over his words, mind blank. “I-I uh, y-yeah, fine! C-come in?” The squeak of the door made him jump slightly, wings splaying out a little. Techno peeked in a little, braid dangling down from the angle that he was looking in. Philza focused on that, trying his utmost to look like the hardcore warrior that he knew he was. ‘Curse my instincts! He’s not a predator, he’s an ally!’ “Hallo.” The piglin warbled out his signature greeting, moving into the dressing room as slowly as he physically could muster. “This good?” He nodded, wings fluttering slightly in indecision. “I..just noticed that your wings are a little mussed. Want me to help? I can leave if you want, just wanted to help.” Philza’s traitorous instincts chirped with delight at the idea. ‘New flockmate? Flock? Yes? Pig is friend!’ The other part of his mind screamed in fear. ‘He’s the Blood God! He can off us in one hit! Leave, leave, leave!’ He looked at the other in a mixture of trepidation and resignation, a look that one rarely sees on such a powerful and shifting warrior as he. He sighed in defeat, opening one of his wings fully for the other. 

The look on the Hypixel warrior’s face made up for the embarrassment he felt. His face lit up, tail wagging quickly behind his sleek form. He gently grabbed at Phil’s hand, pulling him towards a more comfortable spot. Cheeks burning, he let the taller of the two lead the way, winged ears wiggling slightly in mortification. Techno led them to a large room that he hadn’t seen before. Interest piqued, he looked around at the relatively blank interior with curiosity. The builder part of him screamed to furnish it. The rest of him simply focused on the way Techno looked at him with the soft look of someone more than an ally out of the corner of his eye. ‘Does he want to be...more than allies? I sure hope he understands what it means to preen one another...or we’re going to have problems.’

 Smirking slightly, Techno pressed a small button off to the side of the room, listening for the telltale signs of pistons pushing blocks upward. A large, perfectly-sized cushion came into being in front of the duo. The pink-haired warrior looked at the other expectantly. With uncertainty clear on his face, the man sat on the cushion, head tilted slightly in puzzlement. Techno chuckled lowly. “Lay down flat on your stomach. That’s what it’s for.” Understanding lit up the man’s face, before a similarly bright blush covered it. He covered his face with one of his hands, looking through slightly to look at the (extremely amused) piglin. “O-oh.” Almost reluctantly, he laid himself down as the other instructed, wings fluttering nervously before laying at his sides, drooping over the cushions like a large, living blanket.

 Techno walked over to Philza, smiling secretly to himself. ‘Score.’ He parted the feathers on the edges of his wings, watching the man’s facial expressions carefully. He sifted through the feathers as the book instructed, rubbing gently at the base of the feathers as he went. With every touch, Phil’s mind clouded over with relaxation and happiness. A soft wave of calm and lightness enveloped his chest and wings. He trilled quietly, eyes lidding slightly as Techno massaged all the spots on his wings he couldn’t quite reach. The piglin moved from the primaries to his secondaries, making the man underneath him trill even louder. 

“Oh, Techno..that feels amazing…” 

“Good.That’s good to hear.”

 He scratched gently at the skin underneath, eyes widening a little when the bird-man giggled softly. ‘He’s ticklish? I’ll have to save that for later.’ He rubbed softly at the feathers, straightening the crooked ones Phil failed to reach. The cooing and chirping that Philza made could be a song itself. He found himself being lulled into a sense of security by simply hearing the high, lilting notes that the hardcore warrior made. The peace of the moment could not have been shattered, not by anything that would be able to live and breathe after the duo was done with it. Techno shifted a single hand over to the other wing, other hand buried deep into Philza’s coverts.

 Philza was in heaven. If he hadn’t met the goddess of death before, he would have thought that he had been murdered or was dissociating from how little he was able to move away from him or escape the numbingly pleasurable warmth that was his ally’s-no,friend’s- hands. He melted into the cushions, mind numb and blank save for the never-ending instinctual voices in his mind. ‘Friend. Preen. Flock, good. Yes.’ After what felt like a blissful eternity of preening, Techno took his hands off of the other. Phil’s wings chased after his hands a little, the owner of the appendages whining quietly at the loss.

 A brief moment passed before Phil finally snapped back to attention, rolling unceremoniously off the cushion and onto the padded floor, still cooing a tiny bit. Stretching his wings and shaking them out, he got up from the floor, smile plastered on his face. The shyness had leaked out of his eyes a little, making Techno wag his tail in mutual joy. “So, Techno. What is this room for, anyways?” Techno scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you see...how do I explain this?” It was the piglin’s turn to be shy. Philza cocked an eyebrow playfully, wings fluffing up in content. “...I read that avians like you like to have a place to make a nest..so...I cleared out a spot for you to stay? You can make your nest here, I won’t bother you.” He turned around, clearly embarrassed.

The bird-man felt a rush of serotonin cloud his mind again. ‘This man decided, with all of the things he had to do every day, that he had to read a book to make me feel more comfortable? Me? That’s so...considerate of him...maybe...I should return the favor..’ He moved closer to the piglin, nerves coming back to life for a quick moment before he wrapped his arms around his waist. The other startled slightly, turning to look at him a little. “Wha-” He wrapped his wings around him, surrounding the warrior with a blanket of warm feathers. “Thank you.” Techno tensed, before relaxing in his clutch. “No problem.” The sound of the fireplace began to die down, dwindling to nothing in the work-room. But Philza didn’t mind. And neither did Techno. After all, what’s better than warm piglin fur and large, feathery blankets the color of pitch and ink? 

#downywrites #mcyt tickle #but not actually #it's just for the touch-starved people #anyways #how do I tag this specifically #hmm #lee!philza #sort of #ler!techno #also sort of #wing preening your honor #my writing

[andypantsx3]

in cinders | 7 | illuminations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

Lady Utsushimi had asked for you, but she did not look pleased to see you.

“Must you always be covered in soot?” she complained, but she let you into her chambers all the same.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of her sitting room, not daring to touch anything. You’d tried to wash up after your shift, scrubbing yourself down quickly with your rough bar of soap, but you’d not had much time, and on top of that, all your clothes were soot-stained and would require several more washes to get it all out.

Lady Utsushimi clicked her tongue and gestured to her ladies’ maid, who still looked bewildered at your presence.

“Hana, please call for tea,” she said. “After that, you are dismissed for the evening.”

Hana’s brow furrowed, but she nodded as she swept from the room.

Lady Utsushimi fixed you with a considering look. “Come with me. I won’t have you on my couches in that.”

You followed her as she turned on her heel and led the way deeper into her chambers. Like the prince’s, her apartments appeared to lead into her bedroom through a large set of double doors. Through her bedroom, another set of doors lead into a smaller room. The room was roughly the size of the storage space that doubled as your bedroom. Instead of bags of flour and spare mops, however, the space was absolutely stuffed full of dresses, bursting in jewel tones.

Lady Utsushimi picked through them with a discerning eye. “My plainest gown, I think, or questions will be asked.”

She pulled a pale blue dress from where it hung amongst the others and thrust it at you. “Wear this.”

You gaped at her. “Lady Utsushimi, I--!”

She smirked. “You clearly didn’t have a problem helping yourself to my things last time. Put it on and come out to the sitting room.”

She left, closing the door behind her and leaving you alone with the dress clutched in your hands. It was certainly plainer than anything else the Lady Utsushimi owned, barren of any decoration except for minor stitching at the sleeves, but it was still finer than anything you had ever worn, barring her dress you’d stolen for the ball.

You peeled out of your sooty dress and donned the gown, then made your way back to the sitting room.

The tea had arrived and Lady Utsushimi gestured you to her couch. After setting the leaves to steep, she spoke.

“I’d like you to tell him.”

You looked up at her sharply. “My lady?”

She clacked an elegant nail against her tea cup. “Shouto tells me he’s to teach a servant girl called Y/N to read. If you’re to continue to see him, I won’t have you doing so under false pretenses.”

You flinched. “Please, Lady Utsushimi. I do not think he intends to see me again.”

She scoffed. “When Shouto wants something, he is not so easily deterred.”

You blinked. “But he does not know I am the Lady Ito. What reason would he have to seek me out again?”

Her eyes went skyward. “The two of you are thicker than porridge.”

You did not know how to interpret this, so you said nothing.

Finally sighing, Lady Utsushimi moved to pour the tea. She passed you a cup.

“If he asks to see you again, I’d like you to tell him. It does not have to be now, but I hope that you will be honest with him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You could accept those terms, considering the likelihood.

She leaned back with her own cup, satisfied. “Now then. Are you looking forward to reading?”

You leaned forward. “Yes! I’ve always wanted to. I’ve wondered what could possibly be so interesting that a person could hold still for hours and never notice that time was passing.”

She smiled. “I have several tomes I think you would find interesting, once you’re ready.”

You thought of the thick bindings and crisp pages of Prince Shouto’s birthday books. “What sort of books does his highness find interesting?”

She laughed. “Shouto is boring. He likes political science, mostly. As the future king should, I suppose. He reads a fair bit on ethics, and history.”

You nodded as if those words carried any meaning to you.

“What do you like to read?” You asked her.

She grinned, something toothy and genial. “I much prefer novels. They’re fiction, so they’re specifically designed to be interesting. Shouto’s books are all droning passages about things that hardly anyone cares for.”

You laughed despite yourself. It seemed to suit him - he was so serious at times. And yet, you thought, for someone so serious, he did like to tease an awful lot. Was it something he’d learned from the Lady Utsushimi? She seemed to take every opportunity to poke fun at both you and the prince…

“You’ll have to tell me which you prefer, after you’re taught,” she said. “I think you’ll come to see it my way, of course.”

The thought of a noble being interested in anything you thought was certainly a novel concept. The last time you’d been asked your preference on anything, the housekeeper had asked you choose between peeling vegetables and scrubbing pots.

“I get the feeling people come to see most things your way,” you said, forgetting yourself.

Lady Utsushimi gawped at you, then let out a loud laugh. “You’re a quick study. Shouto will certainly have his hands full with you.”

You flushed as an unbidden image rose to your mind of the prince with his hands quite literally full of you. You stared awkwardly down at your cup.

Lady Utsushimi laughed again and gestured at your tea. “Now drink up. We wouldn’t want you to be late for your lessons.”

You nodded and finished your tea, leaping up to change back into your servants’ garb. You most certainly didn’t.

Prince Shouto was already in the library when you arrived, his broad shoulders hunched over what had to be the largest, dustiest tome you had ever seen. His outer jacket had been unbuttoned and thrown over the chair next to him, leaving him in his pristine white shirtsleeves. He looked as though he had been camped out a while.

“Your highness,” you said from behind him. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

He straightened, turning to you. His hair was adorably rumpled, like he’d been running his long fingers through it absently as he read.

“Y/N,” he said.

The sound of the simple word in his mouth did something strange to you. You felt your spine tingle, and it felt like every fiber in your body snapped to attention, straining towards him. Were you unwell? Carefully, you pressed your fingers to the inside of your opposite wrist to check your temperature.

“Please, come sit.” Prince Shouto gestured you over, pulling his jacket from the chair and pushing it out for you. You went to him slowly, perching awkwardly on the chair next to him.

He scrounged around on the desk, flipping the cover of the huge tome back up. From underneath, he unearthed paper and fresh ink and two pristine quills.

“I thought we might begin with your letters.” He said, and you nodded.

His mouth quirked at the corners. “I confess to having never taught anyone anything before. You’ll have to be patient with me.”

You laughed. “If you are with me.”

His smile deepened and he rolled up his shirtsleeves. The sight of his bare forearms and the roll of a powerful shoulder under the white fabric did something strange to you again. You felt too aware of him, like he was a candle and all the world around him was only dark.

He picked up a quill and, dipping it carefully in the ink, scratched out a series of symbols on the parchment before you.

“There are twenty-six letters. You will have to memorize their form and the associated sounds - some of them can have multiple. After that, we will move to combining them to form words.”

You nodded, craning over to see the letters better. He shifted to allow you access, and the movement had the effect of turning him more fully towards you. This close, you could again smell that combination of mint and something masculine like leather. You felt a little like your mind was melting, and you blinked, trying to refocus on the letters.

Prince Shouto pressed an elegant fingertip over the first. “This is a - it makes several sounds like ah and ey.”

You murmured the sounds and he nodded, leading you through the rest of the letters. He guided you through multiple rounds, eventually jumping back and forth between them to quiz you. You fumbled at first, but hit your stride soon enough, flushing when he complimented you.

Soon enough, he deemed you good enough to move on to simple words. In neat handwriting, he penned out a few short words. “Not all words are this straightforward, but this should do to start,” he said.

You shifted again to get a better look, leaning forward in your chair. You lifted a hand to brush your hair back behind your ear to get it out of your way, focusing hard on the combination of letters on the page.

All at once, you could feel Prince Shouto stiffen beside you, letting out a sharp breath.

You turned to look at him in concern, “Are you alright, your highness?”

He was staring back at you, full mouth parted in something like surprise. His grey and blue eyes were darting all over your face quickly, like they were cataloguing all your features anew, like he only had seconds to memorize you.

“You--oliv--” he said, then stopped, shaking himself a little. He closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s nothing, please continue.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “If you’re not well--”

He shook his head, then leaned forward to tap an impatient finger on the parchment. “The words are over here.”

You huffed but went along willingly enough, turning back to the paper. He shifted suddenly, propping an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, bringing him much closer to you. He let out a long sigh, and then seemed to inhale deeply.

You looked at him in askance but he said nothing, gesturing again to the paper.

You looked the words over, sounding them out carefully. You could feel his eyes on your face as you read.

He scratched out several more and you read them out slowly, aware of him watching you closely the entire time. Finally, you’d have enough of the staring, whipping around to face him again.

“Have I done something to offend you?” You asked. You’d scrubbed down before tea, but you wondered if you’d missed a spot of soot on your face.

“Do you know how to dance?” he asked suddenly.

You stared at him, unsure of the line of question. “What?”

“Do you know how to dance?” he repeated. You felt like you could catch fire from the intensity of his focus.

You swallowed your questions. “Forgive me, but the kitchen staff does not have much use for dances.”

He considered your answer for a moment, before intoning softly, “You would have not had the opportunity to learn.”

Something like irritation boiled underneath your skin. You’d begun to think him alright for a noble, but if he wanted to rub it in…

“One of many faults,” you said, hotly. “I cannot read, I cannot dance, I cannot ride, I cannot--”

“Would you like to learn?”

You looked at him in surprise.

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “I’m teaching you to read. Perhaps I might also teach you to dance, and to ride…”

You stared at him and he fixed you with a blank look. “Well?”

The tips of your ears went red. “Well I, yes--”

“Good,” he said abruptly, leaning back in his chair. “Next Saturday then. On your afternoon of rest.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”

He shifted forward again, waving back over the paper. A strong thigh pressed casually against your leg through your skirts, and you went still, waiting for him to move it. But he did not.

“Now read these,” he said, pointing to the words you’d abandoned. “I know you can.”

You looked at the page, and with great effort, set yourself once more to the task of reading. Over the course of the evening, he drew out several more words, eventually progressing to a trickier set. At one point, the librarian came over with an assortment of lit candles as the light from the high windows faded. You hardly noticed, though, engrossed in the task of learning your words.

“Last set,” Prince Shouto announced when the candles began to gutter in their holders. “Read these for me.”

You looked at the words he’d put to the page.

Nice to meet you.

You sounded them out slowly, tripping a little over the sound of “nice” and the silent e. Finally, you managed it.

“Nice to meet you!” you said happily.

He looked you over approvingly. “Good girl.”

All at once, your brain emptied. If anyone had asked you, you most certainly could not have told them your letters, or the words you just read, or even your name. Your mental capacity narrowed only to those two words, and the burn of Prince Shouto’s warm thigh against your own.

He leaned toward you, eyes moving over you in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Good g--” you gasped, then stopped yourself, flushing. “I mean, I’m alright. Yes, I think it’s time to stop for the evening.”

Something like amusement passed over the prince’s features briefly, but one blink and it was gone. He stood, gathering up the papers and ink.

“Yes. It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ll see you next Saturday?”

You nodded. “Thank you, for today. I’ve always wanted to learn.”

He smiled, then pressed the papers and ink into your arms. “You’ll have to practice. I’m going to quiz you when we next meet.”

You nodded seriously. “I will.”

He walked you out of the library, his left side a distracting heat at your shoulder. You bid your farewells, and you turned down the corridor to the servants’ halls.

The quiet, dark halls did little to distract you from your own thoughts, which you would have liked. The prince’s deep tone when he said your name, the silky caress of his voice when he said those two blasted words, played on a loop in your mind. You could still feel the heat of his leg against your own, see those long fingers pressing into the parchment.

With a sudden, heart-rending pang, it dawned on you. The reason why you felt like every particle in you was drawn to him, the reasons why you’d flushed at his teasing and even why you’d sat up in the dark after the ball, feeling his hands on you.

You had feelings for him.

Fuck, you thought, stifling a groan. When he was on the lookout for Ochako, your best friend. When your best friend had her own feelings for him.

You suddenly felt like a thief, stealing all his time away. He was looking for Ochako and here you were, sucking up all his extra hours with reading and whatever he thought he was going to teach you next Saturday. Here you held the answer to his search and you were hoarding it away like a dragon jealously guarding its treasure.

Now that you thought you knew him better, you thought it unlikely that he would look for the Lady Ito so ardently, to seek her out and punish her as you’d thought in Lady Utsushimi’s chambers. A man who taught a servant to read because he was sorry he'd offended her was not the sort of man who would spend weeks hunting down a woman who had stepped on his toes. No, he was looking for Ochako, and it could only be because he loved her.

You had to tell him.

Lost in your thoughts, you exited the doorway to the kitchens, almost colliding with someone on the stairs. You tripped, stumbling backwards.

“Careful!” A gentle pair of hands caught you, and you followed the line of a strong arm up into the kind face of Izuku Midoriya.

“Mr. Midoriya!” you said, apologizing. “What are you doing down here?”

He put an arm up behind his head, tousling his green curls awkwardly. “Oh! Just, um, errands.”

You regarded him carefully. The prince had certainly never sent him on errands down here before. What was he really doing down here, creeping around in the dark kitchens?

Whatever it was, he certainly didn’t seem keen to tell you. His body language was nervous, squirrelly. There was likely no sense in pressing him, when he so clearly had something to hide.

“Ah, well,” you said slowly. “Thank you for catching me. Um, have a good evening.”

He smiled. “You too!”

He hurried off, and you followed the stairs out of the hall, down to the corridor where your room lay. As you pressed open the door, Ochako shot up in her bed.

“Did you forget somethi--Oh! Y/N!”

You laughed, closing the door behind you. “Who else would it be?”

She fidgeted, the straw of her pallet rustling underneath her. “Oh, no one. I just thought you were - well, nevermind. Is that paper? And ink? How were your lessons?”

You smiled. She'd been so excited when you'd told her of the prince's offer, even though you knew she would prefer to be the one spending time with him. She was so good.

“I can read now! Well, some. I can teach you!” you said.

She grinned. “I’d love to. Then we can write mean notes about Kamiko and no one will know what we’re saying.”

You chuckled, climbing into bed. “Well worth the effort of learning to read.”

She laughed. “So it is.”

You snuggled down into your pallet, somewhat cheered. Ochako was so wonderful, no wonder she was your best friend. No matter what, you were going to do the right thing by her, and by Shouto. They'd been kept from each other for long enough, and it was time to make them both happy.

"I hope that you will be honest with him," Lady Utsushimi's voice repeated in your head.

Yes, it was time to be honest.

Come Saturday, you would tell him.

#boku no hero academia #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto #fanfic #bnha x reader

[noctis-noctua]

I, Kaeya Alberich, Take Thee

Pairing: Kaeya x Fem. Reader

Count: 1976

Description: Kaeya knows that be does not deserve anything he desires. There is nothing he can do to make you his, but so badly does he wish there was.

Content: Unrequited love, angst, bittersweet ending, marriage.

Warnings: Slight spoiler for Kaeya's backstory but an addition of (non-canon!) Prince Kaeya.

In another universe, maybe I am not cursed so by the Gods. Kaeya resists the urge to nibble on the tail-end of his quill. It was unbecoming for a man of his stature to succumb to unsanitary habits. Plus, this particular pen hailed from a crow’s feather, hunted by the hands of a childhood friend. The intricate quill had not been put to use for a substantial amount of time, but it fits into Kaeya’s hand as if it came to shape its spine based on the curvature of his own grasp. He could get used to signing off documents and organizing civil affairs if it meant succumbing to such mundane sensations. The morning sun dripping onto his mahogany desks and floors, a faint scratch of keratin against ivory paper filling the empty space… It has been a long time since he’s made the decision to take over petty bureau duties. Today is a special day. Kaeya needs to focus on the satisfying echoes of paper and pen, on the sunlight heating his back, or he might just go insane.

    The clamor of bells tugs Kaeya from his mechanical performance. Each ring is a song of desperation, a performance begging for his attention. Come out and celebrate! Indulge in the pain. He is not a man that falls prey to anger, but he cannot help that frustrated itch in his stomach as he hears the iron reverberating. Please just be quiet, Kaeya thinks. Let me forget. The hesitant croak of his door alerts Kaeya to the presence of the Acting Grand Master. She dons an outfit unique from her usual uniform - a cream-colored dress, embroidered by floral lace, a single azure ribbon tying at the waist. So even the straight-edged Jean has taken time off today? 

    “Kaeya, you can’t make these excuses forever.” He knows from how Jean closes the door with unperturbed silence that this is not a conversation regarding hilichurl nests or Fatui diplomats. He can tell from the way Jean drops the mature title of ‘Sir’ in favor of his childhood nickname, that it is a conversation Jean feels must be approached with gentleness as if Kaeya is a stray cat that claws at feeding hands. The Grand Master releases a heaved exhale because both of them dread this discussion as much as the other. There is an inherent wrong in seeing Kaeya distressed. He may not be shedding tears in solitude or resigning himself to the dormitories, but he is hiding, and that is enough for Jean to observe that he is not functioning as normal.

    “Please, come for a little while. I know it’s not… something you want to see, but he’s your brother. Offer a small congratulations at the least.” Her heels tap on the polished hardwood.

    “I was planning on coming by later this evening.  Tell them I’m sorry for not being able to attend the main event. How could I? Just look at all this paperwork.” Kaeya’s signature chuckle follows, putting up a front of careless flirtation. It is not uncommon for Jean to rope the Cavalry Captain into his desk chair. Lord knows he’d never do it otherwise… yet now he claims servitude to the dulling labor. How ironic. 

    “I’ll tell them of your apologies… but both of us know that paperwork isn’t the reason you can’t make it.” Jean turns around, blonde hair trailing in the breeze left behind before Kaeya can quip up a rebuttal. She’s right. Jean is always right. The papers piling on his desk are from the drawers of his subordinates, filed away to be completed in another five months' time. There is no reason they had to be done today. He is hiding. He is a coward and a pathetic one at that. The thought alone provokes Kaeya to tug on his studded gloves and push out his chair. His sights are set on leaving because to be seen as a frail child is to fail at the sole thing he succeeds at. Being the chivalrous Cavalry Captain renowned for his beauty and failsafe charm is the one thing he cannot lose because he cannot let Mondstadt see how fragile he is behind the visage. 

    Mondstadt’s avenues are bustling. Oak tables identical to the ones across local taverns have been dressed in linen tablecloths and topped with miniature feasts. Children run between tables, tugging at each other’s shirts in a feisty game of tag as festive music tempts the adults to a dance. The tell-tale strums of Mondstadt’s No. 1 Bard’s lyre lead the crowds to the statue of Barbatos. Behind it, trails of petals line the paths leading to the limestone Cathedral. Couples, singles, and families alike make haste to enter through the carved doors. No one wants to miss this. Kaeya tugs on the collar of his fur coat, gazing at the entry before him. He can hear the music of an organ, romantic and rich, ricocheting from inside. 

    He steps into the Cathedral. The ceremony has yet to start and the pews continue to fill. Citizens scoot as close as possible to allow for more onlookers to take a seat. He finds a spot next to Huffman and a few other Knights, squished on the outer edge. It is three benches from the front. Too close for Kaeya to be comfortable. The croaking benches have long since met their capacity by now. Not a soul is missing, Kaeya reckons. Diluc Ragnvindr, the wine Tycoon, Mondstadt’s famous magnate, is marrying after all. It is no small occasion. Diluc’s brazen hair is a torch amidst fog, its perk hue garnering the eyes of all in the Cathedral. He is dressed in a suave black suit. It boasts minuscule gold embellishments followed by a hefty crimson cape draped on his shoulders. Even dressed in the furs and fabrics of royalty, one could sense a distinct awkwardness from him. If you’re going to marry her, at least look confident, brother. 

    It hurts. He cannot lie to himself - not that Kaeya was trying to in the first place. There is a pain associated with seeing the woman he loves marrying the brother that no longer desires to even speak to him. Now, Kaeya regrets standing up from his busy work. These thoughts won’t stop their festering, and it punches a hole through his stomach. Kaeya is all-too-aware that tonight, you will climb into Diluc’s sheets. He’d treat you kindly, of course. He grew up with Diluc and has seen his rigorous nobility tutors shape him into the gentleman he is today. There is no doubt that you will live a lavish life of luxury. A life Kaeya could never afford to give you. 

    In Khaenri’ah, Kaeya’s title of ‘Prince’ holds as much merit as it does in Teyvat. His people are dead or suffering. His city has crumbled into dust and shards of a forgotten legacy. Kaeya himself serves one purpose, and that is to bring glory back to the Eclipse Dynasty. It is in these times that Kaeya regrets being born royalty to a lost nation. In the solace of his chambers, Kaeya would stare at the painted ceiling and ponder. If I were born someone else entirely, would you give me a chance? But who is he kidding? Kaeya knows he’s handsome. It’s stupid and unreasonable to be so self-deprecating. He isn’t the one marrying you because he wasn’t Diluc Ragnvindr. He wasn’t from a line of Mondstadtian heroes; he was from the ashes of sinners and embers of civilization. He was Kaeya Alberich, Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius, caught between familial loyalty and a stinging betrayal. Of course he wasn’t marrying you. 

    The Cathedral doors groan as the nuns heave them open. Light floods in and frames the feminine body of the lady of Mondstadt. In your hands, a bouquet of calla lilies. On your body, a silken robe of pearls and diamonds. It flows at your back, fluttering in the blessed gales of Barbatos’. Kaeya swore that as a Khaenri’ahn, he would never see the Gates of Celestia. But this… this, he thinks, might be the closest glimpse he gets. No one dares to speak. She is beautiful. She has always been beautiful. Time slows as Kaeya lets himself take in the sight of you pledging your livelihood to his brother, and his brother’s livelihood to you. 

     Then, as if he is an innocent child once again, Kaeya closes his eyes as you two kiss. Clapping and cheers fill the atmosphere. 

    “To the Ragnvindr’s! Oley!”

    “Say, Kaeya, do you ever wanna get married?” The girl questions from Kaeya’s backside. 

    “Maybe. Then I can show off in front of my lovely wife! That would be cool, wouldn’t it, Diluc?” Kaeya jests, elbowing his step-brother’s chest. Diluc rolls his eyes, ever the prodigy. 

    “We’re still young. There’s no use thinking about such things. Shouldn’t you focus on training?” He grumbles. Kaeya knows that he will never have a lucky wife. He will never have a healthy family, or a thriving home, or a genuine relationship. Those are nothing more than dreams to Kaeya.

    The girl grabs Kaeya’s arm and begins running into the fields of grapes and firs. There is a childlike giggle dispersing for all in the neighborhood to hear, fading out as they lose sight of the manor. Reaching the edge of the cliffside, they halt. It overlooks a sapphire river below, fit for one of Master Crepus’ paintings. Diluc had been abandoned long ago. 

    “Hey, Kaeya, the water kind of looks like your hair.” The girl remarks, nuzzling closer to him. He feels his heart thrashing in its cage, begging him not to react, begging him not to ruin the fate of his country. To the girl, he smells of linen, lampgrass, and sweat, much as a kid his age should. Silence settles onto their shoulders, both of them catching breaths that had been stolen in the wind. “I didn’t ask before because I thought Diluc would get mad, but… Kaeya, how about we get married when we grow up?” How silly, Kaeya thinks. I couldn’t marry you if I wanted to. 

    “Hmm, okay. So you’ll be my lucky wife then?” Kaeya plummets down onto the grass and grins. It tickles the back of his neck and stains his blouse a verdant green. He dreams of dreaming, because that is all Khaenri’ahns like him can do. He dreams of coming home to your embrace or trudging back from battle hand-in-hand. Either one is okay. Anything with you is okay. 

    “Of course, stupid. That’s what marriage is. So you’ll be my lucky husband!” Lucky husband. It fills his heart with an immature pride too chaste for a traitor of his caliber. 

    “Deal!” 

    “Deal.” 

    They are naive children making impossible promises, but a part of Kaeya has never unlatched from those delicate whispers. Khaenri’ahns dream of dreaming, but just this once, Kaeya wished he could dream of you.

    “So, Sir Kaeya, are you going to marry soon? Youth is fleeting! Get a wife while you’re young.” One of the Knights suggests, sliding him a suggestive beam. Kaeya let’s himself open his eyes. He processes the blinding light from colored panes of glass spilling over him, the jovial expressions of the citizens he has sworn to protect, and you grasping onto Diluc’s arm, a longing of adoration phasing across your features. Happy. You are happy. He turns towards the knight, cracking a smile.

    “Don’t be silly - I’m already married, Huffman.” He lets the novice soldier ogle at him for a few seconds. “I’m joking. Lighten up.” Huffman releases a hearty chortle, commenting on his Captain’s sense of humor and putting a hand to his chest. He laughs along, but Kaeya knows there is no joke. 

Don’t be silly. I’m already married. It was a deal, after all.

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